Harry Potter and the Forgotten Place
by Eulalie
Summary: Harry Potter goes through the trials of his 6th year with some help from a very unwelcome source. Slash, Potter/Malfoy.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Harry Potter and the Forgotten Place (title subject to change)**  
Disclaimer: **Owned by J.K Rowling and the publishing agencies of her book. I am not gaining profit from writing this. All quotes, paraphrasing, or likeliness to Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince are intentional, but I do not take credit for those works. **  
Warnings: **periodic profanity, fantasy-violence, (pre)slash, some sexual situations, slight OOC, an American writer attempting to write British slang :]**  
Pairing: **cannon pairings, eventual dmxhp**  
Rating: **M for mature **  
Summary:  
**The war against Voldemort is becoming a strain on the Order of the Phoenix. Suffering occasional losses of members, the Order is losing their vehemence and control. Aurors are failing to comply, and the new Minister of Magic is slowly losing a war against fear and propaganda. The slaying on both sides of the war is forcing more and more youth to be immersed in the battle. And yet… Harry Potter lives his life trying to find a balance between being a Sixth-Year at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and the so called "Chosen One". With extraordinary help from a mysterious source, love perfuming the air, and classes full of surprises, Harry is stretched far too thin. In this remake of HP6, Harry finally realizes how he tiptoes along a knife's edge and how exactly to trust.

**THE UNBREAKABLE VOW**

Narcissa Malfoy lifted her chin proudly underneath her black hood, heels tapping along the dark London streets. Her eyes unconsciously kept flickering to the horizon, where a budding plume of clouds began to build. Since He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named returned, the world was slowly darkening, like nearly sixteen years prior. She remembered - with a chill that settled on her slender shoulders- the stormy skies and haze that filled the world, so palpable she once choked on the fumes. It was a world of oblivion prior to His temporary demise, and oblivion it was slowly returning to.

Narcissa's heel caught on the edge of the sidewalk, and she stumbled, using a newspaper dispenser as an anchor. Her majesty disbanded, anxieties bubbled to her stomach, greening her face. She immediately cursed her beloved Lucius for placing her in such a revolting position - it was his love for the Dark Arts and lust for power that forced the Malfoys to tip-toe along a knife's edge. But pride be damned if she was going to allow her only son, Draco, to fall victim to such a fate.

An image of her son hardened her resolve. Her convictions hardened, tightened, and created an impenetrable shield around her. A fire replaced the sickness in her stomach, darkening her alabaster cheeks red, tightening her sharp jaw. She would not allow her son, her only physical attachment to sanity, to be punished for his father's misgivings.

Regaining her balance, she marched confidently towards Monroe Avenue. Her eyes flickered over the slow stream of muggles that shuffled by the street. They glanced fearfully down the black alley that gaped between two run-down apartments like a pulled tooth. Perhaps they should be afraid, Narcissa thought darkly, as she strode down the alley, sidestepping rubbish.

"Oi, a purdy layde," a scraggly looking wizard murmured from his seat by the garbage bin. "Lookin' liyk she jus came frum Gringotts. Prolly got hur purse fulla gol', tha' 'un."

Narcissa dropped a few Knuts into his emptied coffee cup, ignoring his gratuitous thanks as she stepped around him to a large, green garbage dumpster. She raised her white-ash wand and tapped it four times against the metal.

"_Bibamus, moriendum est," _she said in a quiet breath, tapping harder at the dumpster. At first, nothing happened. She heard the rattle of the beggar investigating the money he now posessed, the clacks of heels as muggles passed by. A rat scampered over her De Luca boots and she suppressed a shudder. Then, a low whine and an uncanny rush of wind began to come from the dumpster. The cover slammed, with an alarming screech, slapping a brick wall. The front and sides folded down onto the concrete, revealing a stack of stairs that oozed the scent of firewhiskey and cheap, elfin wine.

Thankful that she wore a darker pair of hand gloves that day, she gripped the filthy banister and descended into the abyss.

Walking into Spinner's End, she gripped her wand a tad tighter apprehensively. The uncommonly known community was full of trash: filthy mudbloods, half-breeds and squibs; men who relied on a roll of the dice or a drink of firewhisky; convicts who had managed to escape Azkaban by sheer luck or Death Eaters hiding from capture - by haughty Aurors or the Dark Lord himself. Spinner's End was for those not quite dark enough for Knockturn Alley; Spinner's End was for those who wanted to be forgotten.

Narcissa ignored the catcalls from either side of the cobble-stoned streets, either begging for a few Knuts or advertising a smoother night (not that they could tell the time of day, gauging the concrete sky), men and women alike. Scraggily men attempted to sell her stolen jewels or shouted about potions that would murder her husband and prolong her beauty. She smiled thinly - she doubted that they had a potion that could give Lucius half of the just desserts he deserved.

Passing _Griffith's Potions: For friends, enemies, and a tad of both _and _OOWLS Escort Service _onto Wenlock Street, Narcissa tiptoed around a slobbering drunk, who was raving about his lost "Melissa" into a street sign. The action brought her closer to another gaping alley, and allowed her to be grabbed.

A slight hand slapped over her mouth and tugged her deep into the abysmal gap, while the other tossed her wand to the ground. Narcissa kicked violently, trying to focus her thoughts; a silent spell she could handle, or even a wandless, but at the same time she was completely distraught and at her captive's mercy.

"Now, now, Cissy; wouldn't want to harm your only sister," an overly sweet voice said in Narcissa's ear. Bellatrix slacked her arms, allowing her sister to be freed.

"What are you doing here?" Narcissa hissed, straightening her cloak so she looked once again unruffled and regal.

Bellatrix's smile waned until a look of madness crossed her eyes. "You're betraying the Dark Lord, Cissy by merely stepping into the Forgotten Place. Your intentions are-"

"My intentions are that of my own, Bella, and if you don't like it I say you Apparate back to His side. _Accio wand." _The white-ash wand flew back to its owner's paler hand with gusto. "I told you not to follow me."

"Since when have I listened to you?" Bellatrix asked in her sickly-sugar tone. She lowered the hood of her cloak and straightened her frizzy, unkempt curls to no avail. "Getting quite hot under there."

"What are you doing?" Narcissa demanded. "You're compromising my invisibility. I told you-"

"Ah, still uptight as usual," Bella sighed, placing her hood once again atop her head. She squeezed her sister's shoulder quickly before regaining sight of why she traveled to Spinner's End in the first place. "Cissy, this is ridiculous. You're endangering yourself, and Draco, especially on the heels of Lucius's failure… And to trust _him_ of all people."

"_He_ is trusted by the Dark Lord," the blonde said tiredly. "Do you not trust the Dark Lord?"

"I do!" Bella whined. "I _do_." Shadows of madness flickered across her face - Azkaban certainly had chiseled the woman into something more, something _different_ from what she once was. Her eyes were hardened and glossed with hatred. Her cheeks hollowed, yet the skin was stretched tight, like the most delicate of plastic, across her bones. Narcissa remembered cynically the grin that stretched upon her plump lips when she recreated the stories of her murders, a favorite pass-time of hers.

Narcissa only shook her head gently and stepped out of the alley. "I'm carrying through with my plan, regardless of what you attempt to say otherwise."

Bellatrix hissed under her breath, snake-like and reminiscent of the Dark Lord Himself before following her sister. The slight figures walked quite quickly now, cloaks billowing behind them. They turned onto a quieter, darkly lit street titled ironically, Merrywit.

Narcissa stopped at a badly built brick building that looked a few years or so close to dilapidation. The black colored bricks were caused by amounts of dust and ill cleaning - the few that remained in the structure resembling a house, that is.

"We can always turn back, Cissy," Bellatrix whispered softly in her ear, a hand on her shoulder. "You doubt your son's potential."

"I doubt my son's decision," Narcissa quickly amended. "It is his potential that I am attempting to save." She quickly walked up to the door and grasped the snake knocker; it was so gaudy and Slytherin it made Narcissa chuckle humorously and shortly under her breath.

The door creaked open slowly, immersing them in a candle-lit parlor. Bellatrix stepped in only seconds before the door closed of its own accord.

"Mrs. Malfoy," sighed a familiar voice. "And Bellatrix."

"Zabini?" Bellatrix questioned, pushing her hood back. Her eyes were tightened with anger. "What are you doing here?"

"She came on the Dark Lord's orders," a slick, oily voice murmured. Severus Snape stepped up from his desk, where he once was scrawling something seemingly important. He spelled the quill to keep working as he greeted his new guests, standing behind the slim figure of Capricia Zabini. She swiveled her hips slightly, emphasizing the curve of her body temptingly as she placed a hand on her waist. She shot Snape a large, smoky smile before turning to the two women.

"Snape," Bellatrix growled quietly, poising herself like a cat about to strike. Narcissa rested a hand on her shoulder daintily.

"Professor Snape," the blonde said regally, extending a hand to undoubtedly be kissed. Snape did not disappoint. Capricia didn't pretend not to notice, letting her cat eyes slide over the pleasantries. "Ms. Zabini. I hate to intrude unannounced on what seemingly is an important meeting."

"No matter," Snape said. His eyes flashed on Capricia's figure in the doorway darkly. "She was just leaving."

"Indeed I was," she said in her heady, lounge-singer voice. She grasped her cloak from the peg by the door, smiling at Narcissa. She shot Bellatrix a side-long contemptuous glare before sighing her goodbyes. The latter watched Capricia leave apprehensively. No one moved until they heard her footsteps retreat and disappear.

"Knowing Zambebe, she's going to blab to the Dark Lord now, the lousy wench," Bellatrix growled, intentionally debauching the woman's name. "I'm not placing my neck on the line for this."

"It is perpetually pleasant to know where your loyalties lie, Bella," Narcissa said coldly. "I did not ask you to follow me, but you did behind my back. You have no choice but to fall with me now."

"_No!_" the raven haired girl shrilly responded. "I have worked hard to regain The Dark Lord's favor; I am not losing it for your dimwit of a son."

"Ladies, ladies," Snape coolly interjected, when he noticed Narcissa angrily recoil, her hand gripping her alabaster wand tightly. "If you came here simply to argue, I may have to turn you away. In such trying times, a man does value his privacy."

Bellatrix snorted. "I'm sure you'll have plenty privacy when you return to Dumbledore's bosom like a good boy."

He merely smiled, gesturing for the two women to sit. Narcissa elegantly sat on a blackened sofa, her long, silvery hair pooling around her. Besides her, Bellatrix plopped down, her face pinched tighter with rage and deep loathing, a sparkle of fear collecting in her irises.

"_Accio _wine," Snape hissed. A red bottle flew to his palm. He poured two gothic goblets full and handed each to the fuming women before serving himself.

"Probably poisoned," Bellatrix grumbled, Vanishing it with a quick wave of her wand. Snape's smile stretched thinner. He flicked his wand quickly, halting the quick scrawl of the quill, and whispered the charm to make a room Imperturbable.

"So may I ask to why I have been graced with your presence, Mrs. Malfoy?" he asked, obsidian eyes focusing upon her.

"It's about my son, Draco."

"Yeah, the one who's almost of age and should be able to make his own decisions," Bellatrix snarled under her breath. Snape and Narcissa chose to ignore her.

"Being his head of house, and most favorite teacher, as well as a life-long friend of the Malfoys, I've come to ask you for guidance over my son, as well as reassurance for his mother."

Snape's eyes tightened. "I am glad that Ms. Zabini chose to speak to me before you arrived."

"Zabini?" Bellatrix asked. "She knows of Draco's calling?"

"The Dark Lord...knows of Draco's substance," Snape said, casting Narcissa an unapologetic glance. "The boy will need as much help as possible to commit his task, especially one so great, so He chose to inform me for my connections to the target. Zabini... well, overheard, and I say overheard lightly, the conversation between the Dark Lord and I. As it so happens, however, her son Blaise, who I'm sure you are both acquainted with, is also being lured into the service of the Dark Lord. I've also heard he's become good friends with Draco over the past few years and I figure they will be useful to each other."

Bellatrix snorted and mumbled, "If being Dumbledore's pet is valuable, then I might be daft."

"I suppose you're daft then," Snape snapped. "By showing false loyalty to Dumbledore, I have gained his trust, and certain allowances."

"Mm, which is why he won't let Snapey be the Dark Arts teacher. Wouldn't want the mean ol' Death Eater corrupting the poor Hufflepuff twats," Bellatrix said in her mock-babying voice. "Not that he would of course. That would mean Snapey's gotten his head straightened out and chose the right side."

"Bella," Narcissa stage-whispered. "He is the Dark Lord's adviser and most trusted among us all. You would do well to watch your tongue."

Snape puffed up immediately, drinking his goblet of wine with a superior gaze cast in Bellatrix's direction. She stared him down with enraged jealously, casting her mad eyes back on her sister's.

"As would you; you dare speak against the Dark Lord's judgment. You've attempted to undermine his decision on Draco too many times." Bellatrix stared at her unblinkingly before smiling. The grin split across her face, pinching her face tighter. "Cissy, _Cissy_, when will you understand that your plan won't work?"

Narcissa shot a shamed glance at Snape, before turning to her untouched goblet of wine.

"May I ask about this _plan_ that Bellatrix seems to think will betray the Dark Lord?" Snape asked. "I don't mind aiding Draco in his mission, if he requires it. In fact, the Dark Lord _has_ willed it."

"I didn't venture to Spinner's End to ask for such a thing," Narcissa said slowly, ignoring Bellatrix's fuming face. "I came to ask you not to assist Draco, but to _stop _him."

Snape paused before taking a long sip of his wine, as if to wash Narcissa's words down his throat. He rolled them over in a pregnant silence, dark eyes never leaving Narcissa's.

"I suppose that is why you look so tortured," he finally said. "The quests that Draco has been proposed have been completed by you."

Narcissa hung her head. "It is no matter for me to split my soul for my son. However I cannot, _will not_, allow him to split his in fear." She glanced at Snape, eyes glistening. "He is my final and only son."

Bellatrix, in contrast to her sister's vulnerability, physically hardened to something almost stone. She sounded to be growling under her breath like a mere animal, and a mere, slow animal Snape treated her.

"Bellatrix, you may talk now if you wish" he said slowly and distinctly with severe gesticulation, as if speaking to someone impaired.

The woman flinched. "Do not speak to me with your traitor tongue, Severus."

"Traitor?" Snape asked, eyes dancing. "It is I that has proved to be the most useful to the Dark Lord, while you rolled around in Azkaban, playing with the Dementors."

"_I KILLED SIRIUS_!" She reminded him shrilly. "I delivered that bratty baby Potter to the Dark Lord, and if you distracted Dumbledore and that goody-two-shoes Order, the boy would be with his Mudblood mother."

"It was not what the Dark Lord willed."

Bellatrix screamed and pulled at her hair limply. "Cissy, tell me that it is not dodgy!"

Narcissa maintained quiet, dabbing at her eyes where tears were forming.

"I believe that you should bring your accusations to the Dark Lord, and he will tell you if I am lying. I am quite accomplished at Occlumency, but He is a much more powerful Legilimens; He could read my mind like an open scroll," he spat, grinning at the ever-growing hatred on Bellatrix's face. "Also," Snape whispered, "you have no proof."

"You _slimey git,_" Bellatrix howled. "Your true colors will be revealed soon, Snape, and I will be glad to finish you off, you know."

Snape merely shrugged, Conjuring a dusty-lace handkerchief. He handed it to Narcissa. She smiled kindly at Snape, and dabbed lady-like around her makeup to catch the falling tears.

"It's amazing you still have enough feeling to cry, Mrs. Malfoy, after all the deeds you've committed," Snape said in an odd tone; neither bemusement nor astonishment.

"She's offed many blokes for Draco," Bellatrix pointed out with a twist of her lips. She tapped her forefinger with each name, sighing approval. "Ainsworth, Rowley, Lamport, Landon, and Lawley, Hurst, Weller…tortured a couple muggles too, didn't you Cissy? And didn't you kill a Mudblood? Forgot his name, though. Silly lil' fellow he was."

Narcissa only gasped a sob into the handkerchief.

Snape shot Bellatrix a scandalized glance; the woman merely grinned smugly, almost proudly.

"I only did it so Draco wouldn't have to," Narcissa breathed. "I can't let him see…let him see the light leave someone's eyes and know that he was the culprit. He's a good boy!"

Snape pinched his nose.

"The Dark Lord suspects what I have done, yet he hasn't spoken against it. Perhaps it's because the tasks have been completed, or because he favors Bellatrix strongly." Narcissa turned the power of her gaze on Snape now, trying desperately to reach out to him with her eyes. "I'm begging you, please, do all that is possible to keep my son from committing this heinous act. It will only result in either his failure or his own death himself - even the _Dark Lord_ has not faced him."

Bellatrix's hackles raised and she opened her mouth to retort to the last comment before revising. "The Dark Lord wills it. See? It's not going to work, Cissy."

"_Even_," Narcissa continued over her sister, "if you must do it yourself."

A silence filled the sitting room, only broken by the continuously clicking of the clock, placed on the mantle of the fireplace.

"I will do what I can," Snape said warily.

"That's not good enough," Narcissa whispered. "The Unbreakable Vow."

Again, the clicking of the clock filled the room, accompanied now by Bellatrix's mumbling. She had pulled her knees to her chest, and was now rocking back and forth, eyes wide and dancing. _"Snapey, Snapey, what will you do?_" she hummed to herself. Her voice got higher. "_Oh, it's one thing to leave the task incomplete, but another to have Snapey do it."_

Snape pounced from his seat and began pacing along the back of the decrepit sofa, his beak like-nose more prominent from the side-view. His beady eyes flickered between the two sisters, then to the ground.

"The Unbreakable Vow: a tie between the three of us," Snape said coolly. "A promise, a vow that cannot be broken."

"We _know_," Bellatrix snapped, wide eyes widening further.

Snape glowered at her as he paced. He paused mid-stride, turned towards Narcissa, then thought better of it.

"You're asking me to halt Draco - to sabotage him somehow. This could endanger him. The Dark Lord's wrath is unforgiving."

"Like He expects much from Draco," Bellatrix cooed sweetly. "Better yet you could prove your loyalty, Snape darkling."

Narcissa shot her sister a glare, but cleared her throat. She couldn't sweeten her wants for Snape's benefit; he would see through her. "I want you to commit the task in Draco's stead."

Snape's eyes bore into Narcissa's. Quietly, he murmured, "Bellatrix, will you be our Bonder?"

Bellatrix didn't need convincing. A light of wonder and cruelty passed her face, making her look mockingly giddy. She unsheathed her wand quickly, gazing at Snape, as if to dare him to step down. Darkly, she began the ritual.

"Will you, Severus Snape, do as Narcissa Malfoy asks?"

"I will," he replied.

"This includes," Bellatrix said, madness coating her eyes, "taking on Draco Malfoy's task in his stead to the best of your ability. Will you comply?"

"I will."

Bellatrix licked her lips before continuing. "Will you, Severus, finally kill Harry James Potter in a year's time?"

Snape faltered, before whispering, _"I will_."

**A/N: Please excuse the likeliness to the second chapter of HP6. It was that chapter and the whole "Half-Blood Prince" thing that inspired this fic, so I might steal and modify some things from the book. Of course, there'll be some things the same, but the storyline will be immensely different. For example, the whole dmxhp thing. I doubt Rowling considered that in the series. xP Anyway, please enjoy the much delayed first chapter of _Harry Potter and the Forgotten Place_****. Please review, seeing as this is my first Harry Potter fic, and also my first attempt at slash.  
Eulalie**


	2. Chapter 2

**DUMBLEDORE'S VISIT**

Harry Potter was sitting quietly in his hand-me-down room, glancing out of the window. Night had completely descended upon Privet Drive, coloring the world outside Harry's bedroom window black and gloomy, except for the flickering street lamps through the mist. His room remained just as dark in hopes that the Dursley's would think him asleep. The only light came from the scroll-length poster hastily tacked on the wall neck to the door. The bright orange, moving figure of Joey Jenkins as he walloped a bludger to the chaser of the Ballycastle Bats seemed luminescent in the darkness. It gave off a phosphorescent glow that reminded Harry almost immediately of his friend Ron.

Reminded of his friend, the dark-haired wizard was released from his temporary paralysis. He swung his legs over the opposite side of the bed to his nightstand and turned on the light. Temporarily blinded, he struggled to find a spare bit of parchment, ink, and a quill as well as the letter he received only five minutes from the inconspicuous owl sitting on his windowsill. Smoothing out the letter, Harry's eyes grazed over the words.

_Harry,__  
Mum's talked to Dumbledore and he thinks you can come spend the rest of the holiday with me and Mione. If you can come, just reply yes.  
Ron_

Harry quickly scrawled an acceptance on his parchment in his clumsy cursive, thinking of nothing happier than to spend the rest of the summer in the Burrow with his friends.

The Dursleys, after their talk with a few of the Order of the Phoenix members, had been suspiciously quiet around Harry. They didn't bother him, or insult him as much as they previously had, most likely out of fear that Mad-Eye Moody would hex the lot of them into next year. Though, Aunt Petunia did seem more offended by Tonks's bright pink hair more than the other wizards' threats of violence.

Harry delighted in their silence at first; sometimes to be alone is the best medicine for someone in mourning - he had just lost his god-father, Sirius Black near the end of the past school year. However, comfort is more important than silence, and at the Dursleys' Harry didn't get a tad of sympathy.

The wizard shook his head to clear his thoughts, turning to the black owl on his windowsill, nipping into Hedwig's foodstores. First, Harry offered him an owl treat, which caused Hedwig to glare at him angrily. While the owl nipped at the treat, Harry tied the letter to its leg artfully.

"Don't give the letter to anyone but Ron," Harry instructed, "and don't go the usual way. Don't get followers."

The dark owl "hoo'd" impatiently, hopping off of Harry's arm to the windowsill. She stretched slightly, shook her empty leg, and cocked her head, like an Olympic medalist about to swim the meter. With uncanny grace, she ascended the sky, disappearing into the stars.

Harry watched the owl fly into the night until he couldn't see her any longer. With a long sigh, he turned to his next task – reading evening edition of _The Daily Prophet_.

Turning on the nightstand light, Harry pulled out the newspaper from underneath his pillow. The black and white paper had a large, moving picture of the new minister, Rufus Scrimgeour, standing atop a podium - behind him the ex-minister, Cornelius Fudge, was waving his bowler. The heading proclaimed, _Head of Auror Department Becomes Next Minister_.

Harry's eyes grazed over the words without exactly reading them. He wasn't interested in the complaints of the wizarding world exactly. The way Harry thought it, thousands of ministers could come and go, but he doubted that any of them could do what needed to be done to off Voldemort. Harry half-wished that Dumbledore had taken the spot as minister, but he knew it wasn't likely; the head of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry would most likely rather eat five handfuls of vomit flavored Bertie Bott's than be Minister of Magic for only an hour.

The rest of the newspaper was in flux; half of it spent too much time on ridiculous stories, such as the new robe fashions for the upcoming autumn, while the other half told stories of disappearances. Harry spent far more time reading the mysterious death of Alexander Lamport than he did on popular venues in Diagon Alley.

Pamphlets on how to keep a wizarding family safe from Death Eaters, Dementors, and something called Inferi, were tucked in-between the pages of the paper. Some of it, Harry deemed useless. The directions on how to complete a full-fledged patronus were lacking, as well as some curses.

And of course, the newspaper was filled with thoughtlessly placed apologies to Harry Potter "the Chosen One", along with references to all the ridiculous occurrences that happened to him during his wizarding career. Harry couldn't necessarily complain about that. It was less than a year ago he gave a special interview to Rita Skeeter about what happened during the Tri-Wizard Cup. And naturally, there were others who came forward with information as well (some of it falsified, but a lot of it actually real) to get their names printed in the paper.

For the millionth time since the fight at the Ministry months ago, Harry wondered if he preferred the wizarding world ignorant to Voldemort's rise to power. During the haze of nonchalance from the _Prophet, _Harry picked up a strong sense of panic and the fact that no one seemed to be doing a blessed thing. The Order's efforts were hushed in order to keep their members safe so Harry didn't know what was occurring for them, though he had no doubt that they were working diligently. The rest of the wizarding community, however, seemed to be running around in a panic and not trying to fight back. Nothing spectacular changed for the better with the knowledge of Voldemort public, except for the fact Harry wasn't considered unhinged - though the worship he was gaining was just as aggravating.

Then again, perhaps Harry deserved that sort of treatment. The prophecy spoke of Harry being the sole ender of Voldemort once and for all. "…_either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives. …_" was the exact wording, but it didn't lessen the blow at all.

Harry glanced at the quill resting on the nightstand - he'd yet to tell Hermione or Ron about what he saw in Dumbledore's pensieve. He sorely doubted that it was something to write in a letter.

Instead, Harry tossed his head back on the pillow, waiting impatiently to finish the rest of his useless summer vacation in the Burrow. He wouldn't have to keep his thoughts to himself there.

*****

Like every other day, Harry awoke by the pecking of a tawny barn owl on his head. He pushed at the wretched creature, trying to find the draw where he hid his wizarding money. Placing five Knuts in the small pouch around the bird's foot, Harry simultaneously grabbed the morning edition of the _Prophet_. And like every other day, Harry watched the bird dip his beak into Hedwig's water bowl before climbing back into the skies.

To keep his mind off of the unnerving fact Harry's sleep was vacant of dreams, his sleepy eyes grazed over the paper religiously. Deeming it unimportant as usual, he slid out of his room and into the bathroom.

Harry showered - something he only did late at night or early in the morning so neither of the Dursley's could complain he used all of the hot water. Harry, who usually bathed rather quickly in five minutes, now took a half-hour. He would rub his skin raw, and shampoo his hair several times mechanically as his mind drifted. Showering, like everything else Harry did, was done without thought; his mind was reserved for more important things.

Slipping out of the bathroom dressed, he ran downstairs (quietly, mind you) and out of the house. He picked up the muggle newspaper at the door and poured over it, wanting to find anything mildly suspicious. Harry's was rewarded today.

**BROCKDALE BRIDGE COLLAPSES**  
Seemingly the cause of rust, the Brockdale Bridge collapsed last night leaving behind no survivors. The bridge, which sees over five-thousand passing cars each day, was in "great shape" before the collapse. Past examinations report that the bridge wasn't due for maintenance for the next several years, however there is no other explanation for the sudden break-down. The Chief of City Maintenance, Jonathan Bowne is under heavy fire for the bridge failure, which hasn't been the first in the past few months. "I have absolutely no excuse for these collapses," he told reporters this morning. _See page five_

Harry ran a hand through his hair, reading the rest of the dull report. No one has claimed bodies yet, so no names had been announced. The rest of the paper was seemingly dull - nothing unexpected or unusual. Sighing and riddled with a sense of uselessness, Harry went for his morning jog around Little Whinging.

Summer was coming to a close, he decided. The air had a crisper taste than its usual heady humidity. Harry was secretly delighted - he was sick of the humidity and fog and gloom.

He was out for about an hour and a half, altering between a light jog, a sprint, and a brisk walk. Head cleared, Harry returned to Privet Drive to find his Uncle Vernon tucking the muggle paper under his arm. He turned his back to Harry, retreating into the house.

The rest of the household was awake. He could see Dudley's round bottom sticking up in the air as he fished in the bottom of the fridge for snacks before breakfast. The diet he was on had a nice crash and burn. He supposedly lost twenty pounds, but Harry thought secretly that if Dudley lifted his shirt he'd find it.

Harry's Aunt Petunia was by the stove, fixing morning tea and breakfast. Her horse-like face shot Harry a contemptuous look. "You better not have tracked dirt in."

"I didn't," Harry said automatically as he walked over to the sink. Taking a glass from the cabinet, he filled it with water and took the seat farthest from his Uncle Vernon at the table.

"Oh Dudders," Aunt Petunia cooed in a voice only reserved for her fat son. "I don't think that cupcakes before breakfast is healthy."

"Rubbish," Vernon growled from underneath his walrus-like mustache. "He's a growing boy - runs through billions of calories just sitting around. I've enough of that healthy nonsense. Want to starve you off rabbit food, they do."

Harry looked over at his cousin, whose face was filled with chocolate cupcake and supposed Vernon to be right; it did seem like Dudley got billions of calories just sitting around.

"But Duddy-kin's school said -."

"What?" Dudley interjected, his mouth full of food. "You wannme to look like tha 'un?"

And by "tha 'un" Dudley of course meant Harry. Six beady eyes scrutinized Harry's thin frame. Over the years since Hogwarts, Harry had eaten more. It fixed his once malnourished look, putting meat on his bones. And from Quidditch (as well as many of his extracurricular quests), Harry gained some muscle - not enough to make him look anything more than gangly, but enough to help him fill out his school robes quite nicely. By no means, however, was Harry even half the monstrous weight of Dudley.

Aunt Petunia's face greened slightly - obviously she didn't think Harry's shape was healthier than her "Dudders".

"You're right, baby," Petunia finally admonished. "I'm sure the more meat on your bones the healthier you are."

Just as Vernon was about to hum his agreement, a deafening "pop" sounded throughout the house. Petunia shrieked as a lanky man appeared in the parlor.

Wearing long robes the color of the night-sky, and a hat with embroidered stars, Professor Dumbledore looked nothing less a wizard. His eyes were sparkling over his crescent moon glasses, and his left hand held his wand quite casually – as if he was holding nothing more important than a pen.

"Ah, I apologize, Mrs. Dursley for giving you such a fright," Dumbledore said in his pleasant baritone. "And also for appearing unannounced, Mr. Dursley. Quite rude of me, quite rude…."

Uncle Vernon's mouth was moving soundlessly, his face turning quickly to a violent shade of crimson that Harry only saw on rarer and rarer occassions. He must have swallowed his tongue, or was so mad at Dumbledore (or so afraid) that he was stolen temporarily of breath. His wife, however, was using Dudley's massive body as a shield, her thin lips parted in an O. Dudley just stared apprehensively, his hands gripping his bottom as he usually did when a wizard was near.

With extreme casualness, Dumbledore stepped into the kitchen and offered a hand to Vernon, who stared at it like it was a snake. "I see… I must have interrupted breakfast. Again, I apologize. I would never have committed such an act of disrespect if I had not needed to see Harry," the wizard continued, gazing over his glasses at the boy for the first time since arrival.

"Is…is everything alright?" Harry immediately asked, hastily tacking a "sir" at the end.

Dumbledore's tranquil expression didn't waver. "There is something we must attend to with the utmost importance soon enough before I leave you at the Burrow. I hope that you have already packed. "

Harry hesitated before turning a bit red. "I think there may have been a few things I've forgotten…. Excuse me, professor."

"By all means, Harry," Dumbledore said cheerily. "Don't excuse yourself. I remember a time in my young age when I was just as untidy as any other adolescent. But there'll be another day for recollections of my youth. Take your time." With that, he sat comfortably at the kitchen table, turning Uncle Vernon a shade darker.

Harry ran up to his room and immediately began collecting his items and tossing them messily into his trunk. It wasn't exactly time consuming - Harry had few possessions, and most of those were his school things. Hefting his trunk over his shoulder, his eyes fell onto Hedwig's cage - she still hadn't returned from her early morning hunt. He decided to bring that along as well. Juggling the two heavy items downstairs was more of a challenge than Harry had talent for - he almost collapsed if Dumbledore hadn't sensed his trouble and decided to assist.

"Don't worry about Hedwig," Dumbledore said when Harry began to ask about her. "I directed her to the Burrow. She's safe and awaiting you." He casually waved his wand over the assortment of Harry's possessions and they disappeared into thin air. Harry watched his Uncle's expression and smirked - Vernon was staring incredulously between the two wizards.

"Ah, now," Dumbledore continued, ignoring the Dursleys. "Before we leave, there are some matters to attend to. Did you breakfast, Harry?"

"Er…, no?"

The older wizard frowned, creasing his entire face. "That's quite irresponsible, Harry. In this heat, you need energy before running around. No matter." He sighed and waved his wand again. This time, however, a two enchanted pans flew to the stove. The fridge opened and two eggs cracked themselves and landed in one pan - six slabs of bacon on the other.

"Do you like your eggs sunny-side or scrambled?" Dumbledore asked while a whisk wavered in the air. "I would offer dropped, however it's tricky to accomplish with magic and I am much out of practice."

"Scrambled is fine," Harry said awkwardly, watching breakfast being made magically. Aunt Petunia was in an awe; her body positioned itself to either try and stop the floating items or crouch farther behind her son in fear. She whimpered when the whisk was thrown haphazardly in the sink, muttering "my _poor_ kitchen."

"Excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley," Dumbledore said cheerily while a plate was served on the table (a fork, napkin, and glass of orange juice flew to the table as well, which all coincidentally nearly smacked Dudley upside the head). "May I have a word whilst Harry eats?"

"Depends," was all Uncle Vernon could croak out. His wife shot him a dirty glare, as if she heartily disagreed.

"Now, as we all know, I was the one who had placed Harry on your doorstep, and I was the one who had the great expectation that you would treat him fairly in your home. He may not have been of your blood, Vernon, but he was of your lovely wife," Dumbledore began, steepling his hands on his lap. "However, you neglected him and abused him. I cannot forgive that nor will I understand and sympathize. I see that your wife is poisoned against the wizarding community because of jealousy - I see that you are poisoned against us because of fear. However, I will not and cannot understand that. It is unacceptable.

"I know I am brazen to walk into another man's home and preach to him his wrongs yet I see a perfect reason; Harry. Despite your deep loathing of him, he grew into an extremely talented and kind young man. Thus, he has gained extremely powerful and loyal friends.

"And so, I move onto the more crucial of facts." Dumbledore was now playing with his wand, sending tiny sparks as he tossed it. Vernon was watching the wand apprehensively, the vein in his forehead throbbing at a boiling point. Petunia let out a squeak of fear each time a miniature flare flickered into the air. "When I placed Harry at your doorstep, I invoked an old magic. By housing him with a blood relative, I made sure Harry was safe until he came of age, which is seventeen in the wizarding world."

"Rubbish," Uncle Vernon snarled. Dumbledore continued as if he didn't interject.

"So I ask Harry to use Privet Drive as a safe harbor for one summer more – until his seventeenth birthday. I may not be able to speak you into treating Harry with moderate kindness ; I may not be able to convince you to love him, like all others who have met him do (you are completely ignorant to the fact you are housing an incredible young man, and wizard)," at that Harry choked a bit on his scrambled eggs, forcing Dumbledore to wave his wand to dislodge the food; "but I may remind you of those powerful and loyal friends, who may not think twice about righting this situation like I have."

"Are you _threatening _me?" Uncle Vernon demanded. His face turned a horrid deep plum.

"Actually, I am not. I am promising you," Dumbledore clarified, leaning forward. "If Harry suffers cruelty by your hands, I am not capable of stopping all those from making you suffer a bit."

"That's against your law," Dudley finally said, his plump cheeks filling up with red.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "I'm sure that our ministry has a lot more on their hands at the moment to worry about a few stray hexes and charms."

A bracing silence filled the kitchen. Uncle Vernon was glaring himself plum, his vein jumping out of his head cartoonishly. Dudley was gripping his bottom so tightly his face was tightening in pain. Aunt Petunia looked as if she was going to faint, and Harry was staring disbelievingly at the scene unfolding.

"I believe we must be going," the wizard finally said, his voice oddly cheerful. "Now Harry, I don't suppose you've Apparated before, now have you?"

Harry swung his head slowly back and forth, his jaw still dropped in amazement.

"Just grab my arm tightly," Dumbledore instructed. Harry did so. "I shouldn't have made you ate before this. I hope you have a strong stomach, Harry."

And the world gave out beneath him.

**A/N: Again, a bit synonymous with HP6, but please allow me such allowances. Next chapter will be Malfoy's perspective, and for a majority of this fic, it will alternate between the two.  
Happy Reading,  
Eulalie**


	3. Chapter 3

**APATHY**

"So, Zabini." Draco paused, his voice colorless - frustration was mounting in the creases of his cool eyes. "The Dark Lord enlisted you to assist me?"

Blaise cocked an eyebrow, his dark eyes watching each toss of Draco's apple. "I believe you heard me, _Malfoy_. Not quite enlisted as I am burdened with the knowledge after my mother eavesdropped. Regardless of if I was _enlisted_ or not, I'm not dealing with your false air of superiority either way, nor am I interested in your glory."

Draco sneered, wholly pleased with Blaise's words, but not completely liking the arrangement. Blaise had no reason to _snap_. "Don't be a prat, Blaise. You must understand the importance of my mission."

The darker boy laughed, the tension alleviating in the air. He had the same, smoky laughter of his mother that oozed pure sensuality, as well as the same exotic features. Draco found himself sufficiently amazed by the Italian time and time again - there was something undeniably sexy about him, and it caused a stirring in the blond's groin. However, Draco had become adept at pretending that the brunet had not affected him, and thus managed to look away apathetically.

"I understand," Blaise finally hummed, taking a sip from the water glass at his side. "You are not anguished over the secrecy of your mission being compromised, yes? Although I can assure you I want very little in these proceedings as possible."

Draco frowned, considering how many variables seem to keep coming in-between him and Voldemort. His mother had spoiled each and every task he was given, taking it upon herself to "save his soul." Draco half-considered that it was the Dark Lord's plan all-along; by soliciting Draco, he was getting revenge on Lucius's failure and imprisonment. Not only did Draco's calling cause calamity in the home and unsettlement among Death Eaters, it emblazoned more and more adolescents to the Dark Lord's cause, strengthening his army.

In essence, the Dark Lord had thought out every aspect of gain by courting Draco to be a Death Eater - not that Draco would expect any different. However, he wasn't too thrilled about becoming a pawn and nor would he succumb to that role. Draco had too much ambition to merely play a minor part in this revolution and nor would he.

"I suppose it won't matter," Draco finally decided, taking a bite of his apple in an air of finality. "This is all to gain my mark, and after that I can work alone." _And bring honor where my father failed._

Blaise's face creased. "I don't understand why you want the mark so desperately, Draco. Personally," his voice lowered, "I don't think that the Dark Lord isn't going to last as long as he previously did."

Draco's eyes slit in scandal, but he commented not.

"My mother... she knows things about the Dark Lord that very few know. He's not at his supreme power - he's missing something." Blaise frowned. "Not that he would expound on the matter with his lowly concubine, and not that she would elaborate to her son. On the other hand, there are more poised to fight against him, especially Potter."

Draco balked at that, nearly choking on his bite of the apple. "You're kidding me right?"

"Just because you hate him, doesn't mean Potter is rubbish at everything," Blaise said as if he was simply remarking upon the weather and not Potter's competency.

"Yea, actually, it does."

The darker boy rolled his eyes impatiently. "Your opinion doesn't matter. Potter isn't that bad at dueling. And plus, you must have heard about the prophecy."

Again, Draco nearly choked, this time on laughter. "That _Prophet_ nonsense? 'The Great Harry Potter has been prophesied to defeat You-Know-Who! See page eleven!'" he added in a falsetto. "Complete bullshit. It's just Scrimgeour's failing attempt to give hope to the ministry, just as it was Fudge's attempt when he forced the bloody paper to write all those stories about Potter being a bit touched in the head. _Personally_, I preferred Fudge's quite humorous denial of everything; it gave such a spark of comic relief."

Blaise shrugged. "Then explain the huge blowout at the Ministry few months back at the Department of Mysteries. Allegedly there are an abundance of prophecies hidden in there…."

Draco snorted. "You should learn to stop listening to the rumors your mother manages to hear whilst pleasing the population."

Blaise's slanted eyes narrowed, then frowned and shrugged. After sixteen years of life, he must have accepted his mother's promiscuity. "I suppose. We should return to Pansy; she must have bored herself silly, sitting there alone without an ear to talk to."

"Ask me if I care," Draco said cheerily, opening the door that led them out of the eternally Imperturbable room. Although he tried hard not to gloat, he was glad that he cut down Blaise and his luring argument for rebellion. "She must've found something to entertain herself."

"That's what I'm truly afraid of," Blaise sighed. "I'd rather not walk in on what kept her busy."

The two boys wove through the intricate halls of Malfoy Manor expertly, their eyes so used to the dazzling white floors and the glittering silver ceiling-hangings, that they didn't bat an eyelash. The bright examples of glamour were something to be expected from Malfoys; they wore their riches on their sleeves, quite literally. The Malfoys were one of the few pure blood families that weren't raving and had their prestige, something to be quite proud of.

Out of the corner of Draco's well-trained eye, he noticed the flicker of white-blonde hair disappearing beyond the garden entrance. He frowned. Narcissa had been absent for a number of days, and if she returned without an announcement, there was reason for a start.

"I think I just sighted my mum," Draco said, meeting Blaise's eyes. "You know the way back, right?"

Blaise gave him a secretive smile. "Of course. Give Narcissa my best. I haven't seen her in a while." He gave Draco a chaste kiss behind his ear before striding down the hall, disappearing beyond a shimmer of dragon's tooth beads to the staircase.

Draco hesitated, slightly agitated at Blaise's casualness. Deciding that he could wait to scold him later, Draco turned his attention to more pressing matters – his mother. Tossing the apple core on the ground – Pippy would get it soon enough – Draco pursued his mother.

The grand door to the garden was left slightly ajar – Narcissa must have known her Draco would follow. She was sitting quietly on a bench underneath the farthest apple tree, her hair a tone likened to the pavement's crystalline color under the sun.

The garden was Narcissa's solace. It was the only part of Malfoy Mansion that was completely hers. She created it around the time Draco was borne, which explained why his earliest memories were filled with sun and chirping crickets.

Draco followed the S-bend of the stream through the exhibits of boldly-colored flowers, ignoring the puckering lips of koi fish looking for breadcrumbs. "Mother," he greeted quietly, brushing away apples from the white bench so he had a place to sit beside her.

"Draco…I knew you'd eventually come," she said with a wry smile. "You always come…." Her electric blue eyes were dull, and she had forgotten to take her hair-color potion, because her roots were the same deep black of her sister's. She looked haggered as she usually did as of late.

"May I ask to why you needed me?" Draco insisted, lowering his voice to a comforting tone.

"You're a good boy, you know that?" She spoke as if never hearing Draco. "You're always there for your dear mum. And although Lucius treated you with nothing with cold indifference, I saw your eyes tear when we watched his trial. You're not as cold-hearted as you think you are, Draco. Neither are you as tough. You've led a privileged life with minor, recent discrepancies." Draco immediately opened his mouth to disagree, however he knew better to interrupt his mother.

"You've followed too many of your father's footsteps in order to appease him, love, before I thought I could stop you. Now I see that I can. I ask you to stay out of this war, Draco."

Draco bristled immediately, his mouths forming the words he so desperately didn't want to say. "I can't."

Narcissa didn't seem shocked. She just gave a sad, tired smile. "I understand. You've honor to uphold. You've vengeance you must get for your father. You've a name to make for yourself. I only remind you, Draco, that there is so far you can climb with your ambitions before you fall."

"I know, mother," Draco said mechanically. He waited for the next inquiry, trying to steel himself.

"Is Blaise staying the night?" she inquired coolly.

The preparation failed. As Draco shrugged non-committingly, his cheeks still flushed slightly. He couldn't hide his shame. "I don't know, mother."

"Then I shall see you at dinner."

Draco knew it was a dismissal and immediately left the garden, trying hard not to feel wretched back to his room.

It wasn't the first time Narcissa tried to sway Draco's decision, nor would it be the last. Her earlier arguments tried to appeal to Draco's more selfish nature; she told him of the dangers and warned him that the war was only temporarily swaying in the Dark Lord's favor. She told him that he wasn't thinking far enough ahead.

Narcissa never said what she meant, however. Reading through the lines, Draco understood that she wanted him to join the Order – to fight for "good". But what she didn't understand was how the "good" side was with the Dark Lord. Draco thought ahead enough to grasp that. He might be young but he wasn't stupid. With his life considered, Draco looked at each individual aspect.

If he joined the Order, his life expectancy rate would lower. If by some great gift of Merlin that they won this war, the Order would turn on Draco for Lucius's crimes. Narcissa would end up in Azkaban for now until eternity because of her love and vehemence for Draco's soul. Friends would stuff their noses in the air – they'd be blood traitors for now until forever. The prestige, the money, the bit of _respect_ that the Malfoys have would be completely ruined.

The Dark Lord, however, could grant power to Draco that the boy could only dream of if he played his cards right. He wouldn't look down on Narcissa or Lucius for doing _His_ work, of course. As long as Draco's parents lay low, they would be safe from the possibility of failure and retribution of the Dark Lord. Draco could become legendary, could finally make something for himself outside of the Malfoy name that practically guaranteed him the sun and the moon.

Besides, how could Draco possibly deny You-Know-Who?

"Draco!" Pansy squealed, throwing herself on him the moment he walked through the doorway. "Blaise was just telling me about how you both may go to London for dinner soon and I am thrilled to be invited."

"I hope you don't mind," Blaise said apologetically. He patted the empty space between his thigh and the large arm chair he was sitting in. His face didn't change from that indifferent, hazy smile when Draco allowed Pansy to pull him to the chaise.

"I don't. The more the merrier," Draco said, immediately tossing Narcissa from his mind. He wasn't going to show his indecision, his hurt, or person strain affront of Pansy, and most _definitely_ not in front of Blaise. He had seen more than enough of Draco's vulnerability for the blond Slytherin to like.

"I just _knew_ he wouldn't mind," Pansy said, combing out Draco's hair with her fingers. "I'll have to buy new robes however - mine are disasterously behind in fashion. You'll love the new style, Dray. For autumn, Madam Rozalija predicted dark, gem colors, like emerald in silks. However, maybe garnet would look good with your pale skin – it'd definitely be dramatic. And it certainly would look a lot better than this consistent black you've been wearing. Ugh, it does nothing for you but wash your skin out. Why do you have to be so _blasted_ pale, with those pale eyes and hair to match?"

Draco tuned out Pansy's voice very easily; he'd done it for so many years that it became second nature whenever she began on her tangents. Blaise's response wasn't interesting enough to bother Draco enough to care, but the way he looked at Draco caught the blond's attention. He was furrowing his brows sexily, his lips curved around his cigarette erotically. He snubbed the butt into the ash tray and then gave a smoky sigh.

"You'd be interested to know, Dray, that while you two were alone," Pansy lips twisted, "the house elf Poppin or whatever told me that tonight's dinner is filet mignon."

"Brilliant," Draco said, dragging his eyes from Blaise's face before the Italian caught him.

"I would've expected a more animated response, Draco. What's wrong?"

The way he said "Draco" still pertained some of Blaise's muted Italian accent; the named rolled off of his tongue smoothly, like butter, with a slight, sexual roll of the R. It churned in Draco's stomach, filling his blood. Yet his lips twisted into a grimace. "I've a lot on my mind, alright? Bad enough you come over my house and steal my food, now you have to interrupt my moods. Worst kind, you two."

Pansy frowned. She embraced his neck enough to choke him. "I'm sorry, Dray darling"

"Worst kind?" Blaise inquired, taking another cigarette from the package in his pocket. He lit up immediately. "I'm sure no one else could stand you, besides Crabbe and Goyle. Between them they share a peanut sized brain."

"Makes me wonder how they got into Slytherin in the first place," Pansy said as she usually did when Crabbe or Goyle came up in conversation. "Should've been Hufflepuffs for sure."

"Everyone Slytherin needs a minion," Draco supplied to Pansy's unanswered question. Blaise smirked slightly.

"So…," Pansy began through the silence. She leaned towards Draco so her lips rested on his ear. "Am I going to find out what the secret is this time, or do I have to walk in on it?" There was a certain venom and vindictiveness in her voice that made Draco want to push her away. Was she waiting for the time when Draco would turn back into her arms?

Draco twitched at the idea, the memories that boiled to the surface. "It's business, Pansy."

She didn't seem impressed, but sat back. Her eyes flickered between the two boys, her lips twisting more deeply into a frown. "I'll eventually find out. You both can't keep secrets long enough to save your life. Remember how you tried to keep your relationship from me?" Her voice was growing a tad hysterical, or perhaps it was Draco's imagination. "Maybe you shouldn't knock the bed so loud next time, and I'll never know!"

"Shut it," Blaise said, still maintaining his casualness, but there was a power in his voice that immediately quieted Pansy. Draco was envious of that indifference, so much that it infuriated him. No matter what Blaise spoke about, or what the situation was, he always could remain emotionally unattached, something Draco strived to do with no avail.

However, Draco couldn't have Blaise without his nonchalant mannerisms and Draco had needed Blaise around a lot more frequently. Being the only competent friend in Draco's circle (Pansy wavered along that line), Blaise was called on for advice more often than the darker boy actually had time for. They were near inseparable since Lucius's imprisonment, something that hadn't occurred since their birth.

Blaise had offered Draco comforts that no other had offered – a tabooed sort of sympathy that often left Draco's mind blank. Blaise would do exactly as Draco asked, touching the blond in places until Draco had enough. He would beg wantonly for Draco, showing flashes of emotion that never extended beyond the bedroom. Blaise gave Draco a feeling of dominance when the blond felt he was losing all control. Their beneficial friendship wasn't for anything other than pleasure, comfort and power.

Yet, it was the after that gave Draco the most satisfaction. Blaise, spent and tired, would collapse besides Draco, alighting his chest against the blond's back, slinging his leg over the fairer boy's hip, and his arms around Draco's neck like a cloak. And Draco was too tired and too content basking in the afterglow of their climax that he didn't push Blaise away. It was _Blaise_ curled around him that kept the dreams and the worries and the panic at bay. It was _Blaise_ that was keeping Draco together, gluing him back together repeatedly. Besides Blaise, who did he really have?


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Kind of slow. Apologies. R/R**

**THE PROPHECY**

Harry felt like his stomach was tugged through his throat before being slammed painfully back in. He was barely aware that his feet were now touching ground – his body was still lost in the corridor between Privet Drive and the beach he was now standing upon. Having been the first time Harry Apparated, he wasn't aware of the way gravity disappeared and reappeared in seconds. And nor, did Harry hope, that he would have to be in the near future.

"You'll become used to it in time," Dumbledore said, nodding to himself in agreement. "You'll be learning to Apparate on your lonesome this year at the expense of a few lost eyebrows and a tuft of underarm hair. Reminds me of some unfortunate moments of my youth - however, we've no time for that today Harry."

The younger wizard was too busy clutching at his stomach and attempting not to retch, knees dug into the sand, to actually hear what Dumbledore said. The older wizard pretended not to notice, happily humming to himself and rocking back and forth on his heels, tossing his wand to make emerald sparks like he did at the Dursleys.

"Sorry, professor," Harry finally croaked, pulling himself out of the sand. He swayed a bit, but was immediately comforted by the fact he was grounded.

"Ah, it is my fault, Harry," Dumbledore said pleasantly. He picked up a rock from the sand, transforming it into a chalice with a simplistic wave of his wand. _"Aguamenti."_ A cool jet of water poured into the cup. Dumbledore handed it to Harry with a smile. "You may want to wash out your mouth. I'm sure the taste of vomit is quite disgusting. I've quite an experience with the taste - I do recall explaining my terrible history with Bertie Bott's to you."

Harry nodded darkly, swishing the water around in his mouth before spitting into the sand. "Thank you, sir."

"You're welcomed, of course." Dumbledore glanced at Harry from over his crescent-moon eyeglasses. He gestured with a wide-armed swoop to the beach extending before the two wizards. "For your protection, I will not tell you exactly where we are, but it is the new headquarters of the Order."

"New?" Harry croaked softly. "What happened to Grimmauld Place?"

Dumbledore's face seemed impassive. "With Sirius passing, the house is now given to the one named in his will. We've procured that document, however, there are charms on Grimmauld that halt you from becoming the beneficiary; the house only accepts one with pure blood ancestry." His lips frowned slightly at that. "The only other of the Blacks in existence are Narcissa Malfoy and Bellatrix LeStrange. Getting their hands on Kreacher… that would be quite unfortunate."

Harry frowned, trying to keep pace with Dumbledore down the side of the beach. He gazed out at the dark azure sea, which matched the twilight sky, trying to keep the musing smile from turning into a grimace. Sirius had barely known his godson, yet loved and trusted him enough to give Harry all that he owned. Harry could never equate that for the time never spent, and wondered if that was what Sirius hoped for.

"Thus, a small gathering are trying to see if Sirius had overridden some of the charms. We haven't been able to weave through the protection…," Dumbledore weaved his fingers together, as if to demonstrate the interlocking charms. "I was hoping you'd be able to assist us on that matter sometime, but not now; for the moment, we're to complete a more important task."

"What is that, professor?" Harry asked.

Dumbledore did not answer, merely continued to stride down the beach to a looming, white house on the dark horizon.

The modest Victorian home seemed quite normal. It had a doormat that spelled _Welcome!_ and flowery window-shades. A swing was attached on the front-porch, which swayed slightly in the wind. Little pots of flowers were placed on the staircase, while ivy curled around the top of the porch and along the left side of the house. It looked like a quaint suburban home if one overlooked the fact that the foundation sat upon the sand, and sloped at an awkward angle.

Dumbledore hastened up the steps, unconcerned that the house looked like it would roll into the sea. He rapped quietly on the door, beckoning Harry towards him. The boy followed obediently, albeit a bit fearfully.

"Password?" a familiar voice groaned tiredly from the opposite side of the door.

"Lick'O'Rish Spiders," Dumbledore said. Harry didn't bat an eyelash at the odd password – Dumbledore was known to use candy names for the entrance to his office, so it wasn't surprising he used the same tactic for the Order. Whether or not the older wizard considered it as a liability is unknown.

The door swung open with a jerk, revealing the inside of a comfortable home that just so happened to have an abundance of Dark Detectors hung on the walls.

"In, in," Remus Lupin sighed, closing the door behind him. The room was encased in darkness before Lupin casually flicked his wand and several candles spontaneously lit. "Harry," he finally said, giving the boy a weak, yet long hug. The ex-Dark Arts professor looked shabbier than ever; there were patches in his clothing, and a severe peppering of gray in his dark, wild hair. His cheeks were slightly unshaven and hollowing. All-in-all, Harry couldn't remember the last time Lupin looked this disheveled and sickly, except for those short times when a full moon was near.

"REMUS," a voice growled. "_YOU'RE SHIRKING YOUR DUTIES! GRAB THAT PROBITY PROBE!"_

Lupin groaned. "Must I, Moody? I think it's quite obvious who they-"

"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" Moody retorted, hobbling into the hallway, a gold Probity Probe in his hand. He thrust it at Lupin, his magic eye raking over Dumbledore and Harry suspiciously.

"Sorry Harry, but…," Lupin apologized, before waving the Probity Probe all along Harry's frame. The Probe snarled quietly as it was waved, nearly howling when it was dragged over Harry's back-pocket, where he placed his wand.

"I'm _sure_ it's Potter now!" Moody said, unblinking eye focusing on Harry. "What _did_ I say about holding your wand in your back-pocket? Obviously, you are unattached with your buttocks and wouldn't mind it blown into oblivion!"

Dumbledore's lips quirked. "Now, now, Alastor. Although I agree with you, but this is not the time for such…trivialities." Dumbledore looked at Harry apologetically, his smile never slipping. "Not to say Harry's wholeness is important, however I ask of you both to gather _the_ Order and to meet me in my office. I've come across some information of _great_ consequence, which may or _may not_ change the future of the war."

Moody scowled darkly, hobbling to the next room, his magical eye still whizzing. Lupin hesitated, however, his dark eyes assessing.

"Should Harry be included in this?"

Dumbledore frowned. "I believe it is the right thing to do, Remus. It is _Harry's life_ that is endangered, so he must know all of it. I spent too many years withholding such."

"I understand," Lupin said, still wary. He loped away gracefully into what appeared to be the kitchen entrance, glancing once hesitantly over his shoulder. Dumbledore only frowned, his entire face disapproving, but then brightened as he turned to Harry.

"Shall we continue to my new office?"

Harry merely shrugged; he learned a long time ago not to question Dumbledore.

He followed the older wizard up the steps into a seemingly winding corridor that looked as if it went on forever. Harry's mind quickly recounted the tent he slept in when he and the Weasleys went to see the Quidditch World Cup. It was charmed to contain more rooms on the inside, rather than the outside – the hallway seemed the same.

Dumbledore stopped at the very end of the corridor where a large stained glass window was placed, overlooking the sea. A blazing phoenix had its wings spread, as if it were going to fly off the island. It shifted every few seconds, opening its beak to utter a wordless song.

Harry only raised his eyebrow at Dumbledore, who was smiling tranquilly.

"Gives me hope – a home away from home," he said in that forever impassive, quiet tone. "This house belonged to an old friend of mine who lost his life for the Order. We decided to use it as our quarters so we can always remember his sacrifice…." Dumbledore wordlessly turned towards a dark, mahogany door. He rapped twice, forcing an apparition to appear.

"Hello there, visitor," the silver figure said cheerily. It slowly pixilated until it seemed almost tangible, like a whisping patronus. Harry gazed at the ghostly Dumbledore in awe at the superior magic. "Please state your name, a rare, personal fact, and your secret password [at this the ghost winked]. Otherwise, I will not be able to permit entrance and you will be transported to Albania."

The real Dumbledore responded in the same cheery tone. "Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. I have a scar above my knee in a map of the London Underground. And finally, Ariana."

"Correct, my friend!" ghost Dumbledore said, and the door swung open. "In, in, and don't forget to close the door behind you!" The apparition disappeared the moment Harry and Dumbledore walked across the threshold of the office. Dumbledore closed the door tightly behind then, flicking his wand lazily to brighten the room. Dozens of candles were inflamed, emphasizing the sparkle of the wizard's robes.

"I apologize for the suspense," Dumbledore said suddenly, as he spelled his pensieve to float onto the large desk. "I would just prefer not to speak this story several times, when I can do it once."

"I understand," Harry said, glancing around the office. It seemed neater, and yet messier compared to Hogwarts. It didn't have the same mystical, refined air as his office at Hogwarts. The walls were covered with news articles and photos, almost obsessively. The desk, besides the pensieve, was completely empty, making the room seem cold and barren.

"Take a seat, Harry, please," Dumbledore offered, collapsing elegantly into a chair himself. He placed his wand on the desk, as if to stop himself from the habit of tossing it back and forth.

"Harry!" an eerily familiar voice said. Harry turned and came face to face with a very pretty young woman, despite the melancholy in her expression. She was smiling weakly, her pale face bleached paler by her tendrils of black hair. There were circles under her eyes aging her several years.

"T-Tonks?" Harry asked hesitantly. She seemed so dark, so unhappy it seemed as if she was a completely different person. Harry briefly remembered her bubble-gum pink hair.

She smiled grimly, giving him a hug as gentle as her weak voice. As weak as Remus'. She was spared an explanation of her wretched dark hair as Remus and Kingsley Shaklebolt came through the door, hastily closing it behind them. Tonks turned towards Remus as if pulled by gravity, her eyes shiny. He ignored her.

"Hanging in there, Harry?" Shaklebolt asked, fiddling with his hat. He was dressed handsomely in a pinstripe suit, a black Fudge-like bowler on his head.

"I suppose," Harry said with a shrug. "I'm sure I was better off on Privet Drive than you've been, doing Order stuff. I wouldn't know. The Prophet's kept all movements against Voldemort hushed up, spewing out pamphlets."

Shaklebolt frowned, but nodded gravely. "Of course. Scrimgeour doesn't want to incite panic, but keeping everything away from the public is giving them a panicked fear of what they can't _see_. Diagon Alley…," Shaklebolt quieted, shaking his head hopelessly.

"What about it?" Harry prompted.

"Sorry, Harry," Tonks said with a glower directed at Shaklebolt. "Sometimes we forget you were holed up _completely _with those Muggles with no other news to rely upon but the Prophet."

"Diagon has been completely cleared for the most part," Lupin said spoke over her. "Ollivander, the wand-maker – you must remember him – has been captured. Many other shops were so intimidated that they closed up. Many, but not all. You can guess which part of the Alley is thriving," he added scowling.

"People don't normally venture out either," Shaklebolt added. "And if they do, it's in very quiet bunches that look fearfully over their shoulders. One stray noise and they disperse like rabbits."

"Right they should!" Mad-Eye hissed approvingly. He hobbled into the room followed by the looming figure of Severus Snape.

The oily figure of the potion's professor immediately turned towards Harry, his black eyes incredulous, but wary. Anger rounded into the creases of his lips, and his hand edged towards the inner of his robes. Harry's eyes widened – Snape's hatred was strong for Harry, but he wouldn't _dare_ in the headquarters of the Order, surrounded by the leading members and _Dumbledore himself_, would he? Harry's eyes widened, his own hand inching towards the pocket to where he had his wand against Mad-Eye's orders.

Suddenly Snape pulled his hand away and clasped them affront of him. Harry felt as if he pulled rapidly from a tunnel as he glanced at each of the member's faces; they were talking amongst each other, not noticing Harry's stillness. He turned towards Dumbledore and was relieved; the wizard was staring at Snape, eyebrow raised in mere curiosity.

"I suppose we should begin," Dumbledore said, his eyes inching from Snape's. "The other day, as I was speaking to Sibyll Trelawney about the staffing this year at Hogwarts, she was overcome with a prophecy."

"That old quack," Mad-Eye grumbled.

"She got one prophecy right," Harry interjected under his breath. He was, of course, living proof. The room quieted with the intensity of Harry's comment before Dumbledore broke the silence.

"And so, I leave you with her prophecy." He waved his hand over the pensieve, and immediately a spinning figure of Professor Trelawney appeared. Her voice was deep, possessed, like it was so many years ago when she prophesied affront of Harry about Wormtail returning to Voldemort.

"_One Dark and One Light…two choices they will make. Chained together by a powerful magic unknown they will unite wholly and spiritually…. Light will bring about power… Dark will bring about justice… Together, they will make fate."_

Trelawney's voice died away and she coughed, picking up her mug of tea with a certain redness in her cheeks. "I apologize, but did you say something, Professor?" Dumbledore smiled endearingly at Trelawney, waving his wand across the surface of the pensieve. She swirled into the pale waters until the rippling cleared.

"Well… I guess that means I've at least a choice," Harry said with a cracked smile. The Order was trying desperately not to keep their eyes focused on Harry by looking in other directions, however, Snape didn't. He only stared at Harry, his dark eyes fathomless.

"Assuming that Harry is _light_ and Voldemort is _dark_, is it not unsettling that Sibyll spoke about _dark_ bringing about _justice_?" Shaklebolt mused.

"Exactly what I thought, Kingsley," Dumbledore hummed.

"Didn't exactly say what brand of justice though," Lupin said.

Tonks shifted from foot to foot, staring down at the ground. "Perhaps it's referencing neither Voldemort nor Harry."

"Who else would they simply call _Dark_?" Mad-Eye demanded.

"Voldemort is clearly dark. If he got any darker, he'd be a nonentity," Lupin said with a twitch of his lips. The joke fell flat.

"I'm sure there are other things that are dark. Someone with dark skin. Someone with dark hair, or eyes. Someone who calls themselves dark. Some names even translate into the word," Tonks responded patronizingly. Lupin glanced at her, and Harry watched her cheeks burn ever-gently and her chin jut out obstinately as well. "It doesn't necessarily need to be so figurative."

Harry turned to Dumbledore, waiting for the answer.

"Time will show," Dumbledore said with an air of finality. "I don't think, however, that we should fear these two characters, but instead encourage them. It seems to be, in words less eloquent than should be used, that they are on our side."

Shaklebolt chuckled humorously. He spun is bowler in his hands, so reminiscent of Fudge that Harry had to look away. "Godric knows we could use it."


	5. Chapter 5

**PANSY'S OBSERVATIONS **

Theodore Nott leisurely strolled into the Malfoys' house, hands jammed in his robe pockets and his sharp eyes intaking the luxury of the place with an air of disenchantment. He was half-hidden by Blaise whom he lurked behind like a homely shadow, his steps painstakingly precise in following Blaise's. The Slytherin kept up appearances despite his father's outing as a Death Eater where many failed, and Draco supposed Nott deserved credit for that. Nott also happened to be Blaise's ex-lover. Therefore, on that principle alone, Draco had a certain aversion. What was more bizarre however was the fact that Nott was also not clued in to the fact that he and Blaise were no longer an item. He was not completely clueless though - he was smart enough to understand that Draco was a threat to whatever Nott thought he could get from Blaise and therefore treated him as such. For that, Draco considered him interesting enough to hate.

"Welcome, Sirs and Dame!" Pippy squealed happily, collecting each of their coats and Pansy's elaborate hat, which featured roses routinely growing and dying around the rim. He turned towards Draco with an obedient bow. "Anything else, Master?"

"A bottle of Nymphonia's Wine," Draco drawled, leading the small party to the informal parlor. "And four glasses. That'll be all, Pippy."

After a bow, the house-elf Disapparated with a muted crack.

"To what do I owe this honor?" Draco asked, collapsing mock-wearily onto his chaise. He reclined himself lazily to emphasize his place as _Master_ of the house, like Pippy eagerly reminded him. Speaking of him, already the wine and glasses were placed neatly on the table. Blaise began pouring some for each of the guests, which Draco supposed he should have done, especially from the way Blaise's dark eyes scorched him from under his lashes.

Draco ignored that fact, quite mesmerized with the view of Blaise intentionally bending over in front of him to pour the wine. He was wearing despicable muggle clothing – but for the view of Blaise's fit arse in those denims, and the way his Slytherin green jumper stretched across his chest, Draco made an exception.

"Besides the fact that we missed you terribly, Dray," Pansy cooed, sharp eyes noticing Draco's enticement, "we've heard from your mum you've been holed up in this house for the past week." She tickled his arm with her nails as she spoke until Draco pulled away highly repulsed.

"We also wanted to invite you over to Theo's for the Pre-Hogwarts Celebration," Blaise said coolly, never once giving away an action suggesting he was antagonized by Pansy's worship. Blaise was too good.

"So it's at yours, this time?" Draco questioned. "I am actually delighted to hear this. I had heard rumors that your abode was unfit for even a muggle, but I suppose gossip is purely gossip, isn't it?" He was careful to sound drawling but Pansy noted his aggravation and pet his hand once. Since joining the Hogwarts' student body, people clamored and begged for the Pure Blood Celebration to be hosted at Malfoy Manor. This year wasn't the case. Having been completely humiliated by his father's failure, the community seemed to shun the Malfoy family except for the closest of few. And even from those, Draco suspected that they would turn the other way in certain company.

"I'm trying to separate myself from my father's shadow - the Death Eater outings have ruined many a Slytherin and I wish that to not be my fate _as well_." Nott said this with such venom that Blaise cocked an eyebrow.

_Touche_, the blond congratulated the infuriating ginger. So he did have bite.

"So what _is_ your stance on the matter?" Draco probed, inspecting his nailbeds.

"Personally, I'm impartial." Draco expected that answer. "My family would neither gain, nor lose, from following the Dark Lord. Therefore, I'll merely allow the others to struggle in finding their footing."

Draco smiled patronizingly. "If I did not know any better, Nott, I'd accuse you of plebeian assumption. The Dark Lord will most certainly call on you because of that Slytherin crown you are coveting so. However I am sure you have weighed the option of denying the Dark Lord and have contingency plans for your family and _friend_s [for he must put emphasis on this, to subtly bring Blaise into the conversation] and the such."

Nott sputtered then quieted, glaring at the youngest Malfoy with a look that would have made a weaker man guilty. Instead, Draco merely kept his pasted-grin, making sure not to glance at Blaise who was most definitely staring.

"Ahh, you boys and your in-depth conversations," Pansy said, cracking the ice. "I'd rather talk about more cheery topics than our mortality rate in this foolish war."

"I agree," Blaise sighed. What was that tenor in the sound however, Draco mused. Anger? Oh how the facade cracks when Nott is threatened. Interesting.

"Actually," Pansy said her pale face alight. "I was thinking that we should be getting our letters soon, don't you think so? Then we'd have to go down to Diagon Alley." Draco felt her shiver as if it rolled out of his own skin. "It's rather creepy there."

"That's something I agree too," Nott said, trying desperately to find himself back into the good graces of the Slytherin hierarchy (or what once was the hierarchy; Merlin only knows how far back Draco was shifted in the Dungeons). "What do you suppose the Dark Lord is interested in Ollivander for?"

Blaise was smart enough not to expect an answer from Draco, yet the other two glanced inconspicuously at him with unblinking eyes. Did they honestly think just because the flesh of his arm was virgin, that he would gladly spill the secrets he picked up? Not saying, of course, he knew exactly what the Dark Lord was up to. They were lucky Draco wasn't going about and squealing how the three were in such a crux over which side to choose when all of Slytherin is guaranteed to be with Salazar's heir.

"Inquiring where your nose doesn't belong, Nott, is unbecoming," Draco drawled cheerily.

"Indeed," Pansy murmured, shifting towards Draco. He could feel the heat of her arm against his. "It's a quite depressing prospect, you know, that we actually have to talk about this. Make choices. Makes me feel old. Do you know we've only a year left at Howarts? Well, beyond this year."

Draco darkly sipped his wine; he wasn't concerned with the fact time was progressing. He waited all of his life practically for a moment to break out of routine – to follow his ambitions.

"Merlin," Blaise groaned, lighting up his cigarette. Draco watched the way his mouth formed around the butt, then the ring of smoke he exhaled. The room smelled like methanol. Draco shifted, his cock rising a bit in his trousers. That's another thing Draco had over Nott; he made sure to fuck Blaise _right_.

A crack sounded in the room, and Draco was glad Pippy decided to interrupt. "Excuse me, Sirs and Dame and Master! Dinner is to be served soon. Mistress wants to sup in the gardens by the apple trees."

"Tell my mother we will arrive shortly," Draco ordered regally with a small nod that meant _thank you_. He learned from the past that a few courtesies given to the house elves would keep them loyal, unlike his father's harsh treatment to Dobby. That brought in undesired images of that wretched Prince Potter and his unruly hair.

"Pippy will, Master!" the house elf said enthusiastically before bowing so low his nose touched the carpet. He then Disapparated from the room.

Pansy stood daintily, and flipped her long hair behind her back. Blaise stood fluidly as well, talking about the garden with Nott. He caught Draco's attentions and tilted his head gently in acknowledgment before leaving the room first. Nott seemed a bit pleased by that, his acne-scarred skin turning a bit red. Draco only rolled his eyes; he was sure that it wouldn't be Nott's bed Blaise warmed tonight.

"He's jealous," Pansy tittered quietly in Draco's ear as she wound his arm around hers.

"I don't understand of what," he grumbled, pulling away from her. "I know you understand that I am not your property, Pansy – this show you put off is aged. We're not together and I _severely _doubt we will be again."

"That's what you always say," she said, leaning in to kiss underneath his chin. Draco dodged her expertly.

"What about that Irishman you had locked between your legs?" Draco prompted, watching the two boys disappear (more specifically, Blaise's tight arse) behind the large doors into the garden. "Or did he run screaming?"

"Draco," Pansy said, stopping. She grabbed his chin and forced him to view her. "Think of it logically. Do you honestly think your parents are going to let you marry some sort of man? You're lucky that your parents and mine are so close. You know they've been speaking about marriage sense we grew close, and the time is quickly arriving for bonds."

Draco halted and ran through all of his plans, trying to remember where he penciled in marriage - e_specially_ a marriage to Pansy of all people. It seemed he did not. Relieved, he shot a smile which he knew was handsome.

"You're being ridiculous. I doubt my mother has the interest to marry me off."

"You're not being practical. Your parents were married young – fresh out of Hogwarts, just like every other pure blood family," she said darkly.

"Arranged marriages are going out of style."

She sighed. "With the Dark Lord rising, a lot of old pureblood traditions are as well. And don't tell me they're going out of style. Haven't you heard? Bulstrode and Crabbe might tie the knot soon enough. That Greengrass girl…Astoria has her sights set on you too. Well her family." Pansy rolled her eyes. "Perhaps you need to step out of the Dark Lord's shadow long enough to realize what's happening in front of your face."

Draco rolled his eyes, but kept his voice lowered. "Don't think that your new argument is going to change anything, Pansy."

She shrugged. "Just don't be surprised when you and Blaise will have to end your little exploits. And don't cry on my shoulder over it."

He opened his mouth to retort, but chose not to. She was being pigheaded of course. Instead, he strode into the garden where the rest of the party awaited him. For the first time he was unnoticing of the way the sun hit the leaves like liquid on glass – it gave the light a density, seeming almost palpable.

Narcissa sat daintily at the oblong dinner table. Her white-blonde hair was piled upon her head in intricate ringlets, framing her pale face delicately. She must have finally used a potion to keep it pale. There was a certain firmness in her face, however, and a gentle insanity in her eyes. Yet she sat composed amongst Nott and Blaise.

"Draco," she greeted somberly. The boy kissed his mother's paper-thin cheek before sitting across from Blaise. The dark-haired boy arched his brows in question, but let it rest. Perhaps they heard Pansy and his argument in the hall; Draco sorely doubted it, but was careful – they need not know Pansy's desperation.

Ω

"Salazar," Draco groaned, trying to steady his breathing. Each inhale sucked in more of Blaise's Italian citrus flavor – a clean, sweet, erotic scent that smelled so lightly heady and contradictory it made Draco's head spin. His tongue was minty, like peppermint and nicotine, as it swept in the paler boy's mouth, trying to map each corner and print it to mind. His hands, mobile, rubbed against Draco's growing erection, eliciting a moan from the blond.

"You should wear these more," Draco gasped, pulling at Blaise's denim belt loops. He grinned freely, glancing at the brunette who was beautifully debauched and barely even touched - his jumper was shed, his curls frizzed and splayed over the crimson pillows. Draco dropped his lips to a dusky-rose nipple, sucking it until he earned a squealing gasp."I was barely able to keep my attention on your face."

"Pansy seemed adept at creating a distraction," Blaise grumbled, his hand flexing more tenuously than needed.

The wretched girl's words came back into his head and Draco growled. "What are you trying to get at? Are you jealous of her denseness?"

Blaise nipped at Draco's bottom lip, sucking on it. His dark lashed eyes fluttered shut, fingers coming up to caress the blond's ribcage.

"I understand that we're simply lovers," Blaise said slowly. "I'm not asking for a change in that, just to be exclusive. I don't want to share something of mine with someone else."

Draco glared. "I don't appreciate being called property. If anything, Blaise, you belong to me."

"It's not I who sought you out, Malfoy." His dark eyes turned dangerous. "I believe you owe me something in this partnership, if not fidelity."

"You heard Pansy," Draco finally sighed, libido quelled. "And you're jealous."

"Of course I am," the darker boy sighed. "Why shan't I be? I knew what I was getting into from the beginning, but would it be inhuman of me not to want more. You have given Pansy so much more than me. I'm not asking for love…," he paused. "But I wouldn't mind loyalty."

He then thought of Nott, the way Draco's treatment of the pleb brought out a strange emotion in Blaise, then kicked away the thought; Draco fucked him thoroughly enough that Blaise need-not go elsewhere for the service. "You ask for this as if I've been seen with others."

Blaise seemed astonished by that, his brows furrowing, then shrugged.

"Damn you, Blaise," Draco cursed, pushing himself away from the bed, then gave his patented sneer. "You _can_ kindly leave."

Blaise stared at Draco, his dark brow raised. His voice remained impassive however. "And then who do you have, Malfoy? Who? No one. _No one_. You don't have Pansy, and you don't have your mother. You don't have Crabbe and Goyle. Your father never loved you. Your godfather is a joke. Who do you have besides me?" The voice lowered. "_Who_?"

A growl ripped itself from Draco's throat. He pounced viciously on the Italian, pinning him into the mattress. His hand formed manacles on the Italian's wrists, which he held over Blaise's head. Draco's mind was narrowed in revenge; he would show just how exactly he owned him. He murmured a wandless spell that ripped the denims from Blaise's arse. Fuck the ministry, he scowled internally, biting at Blaise's lips. The brunet fought gallantly, kicking his legs and trashing. It didn't stop Draco from trusting in the tight coil of muscle, however, making Blaise cry out in a heady mix of pain and pleasure.

"You bastard," Blaise gasped when he caught his breath. However, the Italian was barely phased - he was soon thrusting downwards like a wanton whore, his masochistic eyes glowering through ecstasy.

Draco chuckled humorlessly as he rocked into a violent momentum, barely registering Blaise's laden moans. "I know."

Ω

Spinner's End was a maze within a maze, Draco mused, as he strolled along the memorized streets. Every structure was like a dot on a grid, a specific block that took up land. However, over the years more buildings were added or destroyed, leaving gaping holes and dead ends; streets didn't necessarily go in parallel lines, but curved in s-shape forms. The numbering system was not for ease of finding a house in terms of walking down a street and having them in perfect order, but instead created solely for the purpose of keeping track of how many times the building was destroyed. For instance, number 37 Morea Way would be in-between 1,951 and 2. Charms hid certain streets, normally where convicts found shelters. The fumes from specific drugs wafting from chimneys gave off illusions. The lack of the sun created an immortal darkness, which gave a sense of panic; therefore, it was easy to get lost if one did not know the way.

More interestingly, however, was what was supposedly _underneath_ Spinner's End. A maze, within a maze. Underneath the concrete ground, there's a mythical prison which was supposed to have been used to rid communities of squibs and mudbloods. To destroy them, in the ancient times, wizards thought they needed to throw the creatures into the center of the earth to clear their karma. In other stories, the subterranean labyrinth was used to test spells during the rejection of magic by muggles. Others say it was a place to sacrifice for rituals pertaining to pagan gods (though Draco didn't particularly believe any wizard in their right mind would believe in the _gods_ of all things).

However, each time Draco stepped into Spinner's End, he felt an immense rush of thrill and hesitancy.

Merrywit was quiet as usual – the more dilapidated housing was tucked in a corner where none would care to loot. He grasped the familiar knocker and banged it once tiredly. The door opened as usual, when Snape was home, swinging closed behind him. Draco hung his cloak on a peg, and then began to inspect the quiet room he remembered spending years in.

A silver doe appeared down the stairs, opened its mouth, and Snape's terse voice came out. "Draco – I am defusing a delicate potion that involves my complete attention."

The boy only frowned, watching the patronus turn into a silvery smoke. But then again, who was Draco to come running to Snape when he wished for guidance?

Snape was a long-time friend of the Malfoys, and therefore became close to Draco. Although he wasn't technically a godfather, he was just as well, and often considered as an adopted godfather of sorts. His real godfather, Rodolphus Lestrange and his godmother, auntie Bellatrix, were imprisoned until very recently. It was Snape who had seen Draco's first usage of magic (although he will be quick to hastily deny that in front of Narcissa) and Snape who had watched after Draco since appearing in Hogwarts. He was the one who wrote letters inquiring after the boy's health, instead of Draco's own father, even though he was a few rooms away.

Yet, Snape was held at arms' length by Lucius because of Snape's dark demeanor and parallel ambition.

The parlor of 30 Merrywit Street was impulsively clean, something unlike the innards of Snape's office at Hogwarts. It seemed the man was used to visitors, and decided to take out all of his personal belongings, leaving behind only those important, such as the coffee table and sofa. Draco found it odd – he was used to jars and chalices and books strewn across the floors, showing marvelous, beautiful, scary items for potions that could destroy a person wholly or bring them back to life.

"Malfoy? D-D-Draco Malfoy?" a voice hissed from the staircase. The round figure of Peter Pettigrew was slinking down the stairs with jerky steps – some say he never quite got over being a rat for so many years, and now Draco understood. His nose was scrunched up, as if he was trying to catch Draco's scent with his human senses.

"Wormtail," Draco said. "I assumed you were attached to the Dark Lord's feet; it's great to see you've gained legs of your own."

"Like your father, you are." Wormtail squeaked like the rat he was. "Maybe you won't fail the Dark Lord like he has."

Red crossed Draco's view, but he remained composed. He even gave a perfunctory smile. "Quite observant of you, Wormtail. They do say that I am very much alike my father, although I have one defining feat; I am not quite as compassionate as he. So I dare you, Wormtail, to speak against my family and insult me to my face once more. I will not hesitate to hex you." His wand was bared, yet in a relaxed angle, which was all the more threatening.

Wormtail immediately stopped breathing, like a cornered animal, his eyes darting towards Draco and then the door. Draco flexed his wand arm once, just to see Wormtail flinch, to see the fear jump into his eyes.

"I think that is enough, Mr. Malfoy," Snape said silkily, as he stepped down the stairs. He as well, held his wand aloft. Although he scolded Malfoy, his piercing black eyes were focused on Wormtail. "Pettigrew, I have a meeting with Mr. Malfoy, and I would _wish_ you to depart as quickly as possible."

"Oh…ohyes, yes, yes, Snape. I will...mhm…," Wormtail stumbled, grabbing at his cloak. He barely mumbled farewell before stepping outside of the house, closing the door closed with a click.

"You need to keep your head clear, Draco," Severus snapped, walking to his kitchen. He spelled two mugs to be filled with water before warming them to a boil. "The Dark Lord will hear of your weakness and exploit it."

"Wormtail could be lurking outside of that door listening to us," Draco muttered.

Snape smiled. "Quite naïve of you, Draco, to think that I have not placed several appropriate enchantments on my home. There are many who wish to spy on me."

"I apologize," Draco said, raising his chin, and accepted the mug of mint tea. He took a seat on the sofa, glaring enviously at Snape as he flounced into his chair regally, reminding Draco that although this place might be his safe harbor, it was also Snape's _domain_.

"So, will you speak to me what has been bothering you? I have not seen you in months, yet have heard of your… plight…. Children your age are just _filled to the brim_ with gossip." He smiled darkly.

"What have you heard?" Draco probed, trying to keep his cheeks from reddening. Draco knew he was speaking about Pansy.

"Your dear friend was worried about you. She thinks you're forgetting your societal duties to pure bloods to pursue your Dark Mark, something I heavily disapprove of, as well as your mother." Draco tried to remain nonchalant, but his lips turned sour. "I cannot agree with Pansy more."

"You take her side?" Draco asked.

"The Malfoy name garnered respect until your father's repeated failure – Bellatrix barely saved your honor. And now you remain exclusive to the manor, except when the Dark Lord calls upon you. They look at it as a defeat, Draco, and you _know_ this. You're forgetting that although you need to gain entrance into the hierarchy of the Dark Lord, you also need to maintain your control over the Slytherins. I doubt your place as the head Slytherin at Hogwarts will remain. Perhaps Crabbe and Goyle will remain by your side, because of their inability to think for themselves. Parkinson and Zabini are truly your only confidants, so they will remain faithful. However, all those who you once called your "sheep" have turned to greater pastures, and I fear that may be Theodore Nott."

Draco shuddered at the idea. "Their choosing to host the pre-school gathering at Nott's means noth-…."

"It was not that long ago I was a Hogwarts' student," Snape interjected sharply. "The Pure-Blood Celebration is not hosted at a house chosen out of a _hat_, Draco. You know this as well as I. They choose the most powerful of their year and force him to expose his home, connections, and wealth. It's a test. Should he pass, he will succeed you. And I don't have a doubt that Nott will. He embodies the ability to choose neither the Dark Lord or Dumbledore if one wants."

_Which is exactly why it means nothing_, Draco thought, giving Snape a smirk of misplaced content. "The Dark Lord is not going to allow Nott to poison the Slytherins against him."

"He's also not going to allow a failure," Snape said quietly, gesturing to Draco with an unapologetic sweep of his hand, "to rule the minds of his future Death Eaters. He views the fact you can't keep control of your people against you. In his time, when he was merely a boy at Hogwarts, he was the center of the Slytherin world – even the other houses admired him for his brilliancy. Only few knew of his true colors. And so you must do the same, if you desire to climb the ranks of the Dark Lord's army."

Draco's smirk slipped away, his shoulders aching from an intangible weight. Yet he sat silently. He pushed away the part of his brain that registered his emotions, and began analyzing the situation, producing plans to recapture the Slytherin "throne." Everything led to one answer.

He couldn't hesitate on his test. He _needed _to kill Harry Potter.

Snape cleared his throat loudly, forcing Draco to look up. Oddly, the professor's face became pinched, as if uncomfortable."Miss Parkinson also expressed her…view on your relationship with Zabini."

Draco scowled openly: if Pansy was that desperate that she would speak to _Snape_, than the bloody wench would need a firm speaking to. "Of course she would, the jealous cow. There _is_ no relationship between Zabini and me. We are purely lovers, and nothing more. I have no qualms with abandoning him, if I must."

Snape frowned, caressing his chin, where he had allowed a sharp, curled beard to grow. "That's unusually cold of you."

Draco sneered, feeling every bit the overindulged noble that he was.

"She also informed me that you have not been keeping up with reappearing pureblood trends," Snape added. "This is dim of you. For someone who has looked so far ahead in their future, you're leaving out important variables."

"My mother wouldn't – she's not in her right mind, nor has the time to arrange such."

Snape smiled sadly. "Draco. Your family has been _shamed_. Do you think your mother, out of her love for you, or because Lucius is directing her to, will not arrange a marriage to serve the better of the Malfoy name? Consider yourself already engaged."

"There's no proof," Draco growled childishly.

"Oh really? Have you wondered where your mother has gone as of late?" He clasped his hands and leaned forward, eyes desperately trying to force Draco to understand. "She has long questioned me for advice, and I gave it to her. She is now seeking engagement to Astoria Greengrass."

"Astoria Greengrass?" Draco balked, slightly amused, slightly amazed. The red-haired girl looked so delicate, like a pixy…. And her nose happened to be so upturned that he could see her brain, which was wrapped around her riches and Draco's love-life. She watched him like a hawk, never once tiptoeing towards him, hidden behind her sister. Perhaps she knew already that she would be forced into marriage with Draco. Perhaps she _wanted_ it.

"Greengrass does not have the same prestige as the Malfoy name or even the Parkinson, yet her older sister Daphne is becoming quite accomplished at wizardry. I expect the Greengrass name to become eventually famous, if not infamous by the end of the war." Snape said quietly. "I also pushed the importance of keeping you away from Parkinsons. Unless of course, you chose once again that she is in your good graces."

"Never," Draco snapped. "I don't know where you get off meddling in my life. Merlin only knows what damage you've impacted. _Arranged marriages!_ Of all things. This is probably a plan you cooked up in hopes I'd refrain from the Dark Arts. I'm not, even with this _Greengrass_ girl attached to me, saying I consent to such things."

Snape's flint eyes turned into a menacing glare. "I apologize that I'm trying to keep you safe, Draco."

"I apologize to you, for you're going about it completely _wrong_."

"Insolence, insolence," Snape said, his voice growing in anger. He calmed himself instantly however, letting rage ooze out of his obsidian eyes. "One day you'll learn, Draco, that you're not always correct. One day you'll accept my assistance, _especially_ when you ask for it."

Draco stared coolly ahead feeling shame mount in his chest, pile after pile until he could barely breathe.


	6. Chapter 6

**MALFOY MANNOR**

Harry slashed lightning bolts into the sand with the tips of his fingers, exact replicas of the very scar he wore on his forehead. The exact branding which gave him all of his trouble. He tried not to be sullen and musing but it was hard not think about Trelawney's new prophecy as he sat alone on the beach. The woman's words made him sick, feel almost faint and the more he tried to subdue his feelings, the more they churned.

Everything seemed to fit despite Harry's, and the rest of the Order's hope about it. Perhaps it was true that Harry would turn to Voldemort like the villain said during the Battle of the Ministry last spring. That dropped ice water in Harry's veins; he shuddered.

Dumbledore had explained that when Voldemort tried failingly to kill Harry with Avada Kedavra, a little bit of the Dark Lord was transferred into him. That explained why Harry could speak Parseltongue, why Harry was so sensitive to powerful bouts of Voldemort's emotions. In Hogwarts, Harry excelled in the Dark Arts, although he found interest in learning them for a different reason. Could he also be susceptible to the same lust for power that drove Voldemort mad? The same hatred for muggles? Their lives were so parallel that it did not seem impossible, but rather likely.

_But you can love, Harry, _the boy reminded himself internally, his conscious taking on the pleasant baritone of Dumbledore. Harry snorted in response; he wouldn't have love if he kept getting the ones he loved killed.

_That's not your fault, and you know that,_ Hermione snapped angrily, sounding every-bit as matronly as she did on a day-to-day basis. He imagined her wispy curls frizzed from raking her fingers unsuccessfully through as she argued this tirelessly. Then she would turn to the gangly boy at her side and implore him to add something with her eyes.

_You tried your hardest mate,_ Ron would say. Even in Harry's personal rendition, Ron sounded as if he didn't wholly believe his own words.

"And now, Harry," Dumbledore said, creeping up on Harry almost as if he Apparated. "There are some other matters that need settling."

"Sir?" the boy asked, shaken from his reverie. He nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of Dumbledore's voice. Trying to downplay of his moment of terror, he stood and brushed the sand off the arse of his jeans. "Remembered I was still out here did you?"

The older wizard frowned, deepening the lines etched in his skin. "I apologize, Harry (something I seem to be doing often today); I did not realize that it would be as difficult as it was to arrange a meeting with Narcissa Malfoy with her sister accompanying her. It seems that they have not become as close, something I'm not quite incredulous about, but am wary of."

Harry's eyes widened in shock. "A meeting…with the Malfoys? For what?" he demanded. "Do I have to go?"

"Yes, you do Harry, which I regret. You remember the charms that are in place, do you not? Successful curse-breakers are… are flighty creatures. The ones that have any true merit are enlisted in the ministry and I would rather them not have wind of Sirius and your relationship. Rogue curse-breakers are notably live among darkness. The Order is strong, but we are not practiced in curses and unlocking ancient, pureblood charms. You have not advanced in your studies to learn about certain wards and the such.

"But I digress. The only surviving members of the Black clan are Bellatrix LeStrange, Narcissa Malfoy, Andromeda Tonks (yes, Nymphadora's mother) and their husbands. Andromeda has been annexed from the will of the Blacks so I severely doubt that the magic would give her the property unless the latter two were dead. Thus, we must meet with them and figure the beneficiary of Sirius's will."

For a moment Harry sputtered, staring speechlessly at Dumbledore. How could he not understand how much of a terrible idea this was? Was Dumbledore so secure in the way the war was going that he could rationalize walking into a lions' den?

Finally words came to Harry's lips – they came out rushed, his voice cracking several octaves. "Why should we trust them? We could be walking into a trap – or they might just lie about everything! There's no reason for them to see us!"

"You have not met Narcissa, but I trust her wholly and completely. The woman has not deceived me." Dumbledore said lightly, his eyes glittering. Harry's anger was mounting, mostly arising from confusion, curiosity and frustration. However, Dumbledore continued. "I cannot explain what for, because I would be breaking my loyalties –" _what about your loyalties to me? the Order? _Harry seethed; "but I can tell you that Mrs. Malfoy is a respectable woman. Bellatrix… she's mad, but she's not silly enough to try to touch a hair on neither your head nor mine. She understands the boundaries of her powers, and the fact she is merely a pawn for Voldemort to control – that's wherein her danger lies."

The memory of Bellatrix coiled in the pit of Harry's stomach, added a tension to his spine.

"But what if they call Voldemort, what if this is a set up? I can't believe this-"

"Voldemort is not in England at the moment," Dumbledore said patiently. "The Malfoys were disgraced. Regardless, Tom would not give his ear at what they say, no matter how much he cherishes Bellatrix's ah, I shall say zealousness."

"What about Malfoy?" Harry pressed, his voice losing vehemence and becoming whiney as he desperately tried to show the older wizard his fault. "I sent his father to prison; he'll be livid."

Dumbledore smiled clairvoyantly. "Young Malfoy, you'll see, has changed severely over this vacation period. I do doubt that he will not attempt to antagonize you once we return to Hogwarts, but I am sure that he will remain civil around his mother."

"I still don't think this is a good idea."

"I think you've lost trust."

Harry frowned. "You're right; I don't trust those people as far as I could throw them, which is very far, with or without a wand."

"In me," Dumbledore corrected somberly. "I'm not completely surprised, but I hope it's irreversible." He paused before continuing. "I believe you should come back in and eat, as well as wash up. We are leaving for Malfoy manor shortly afterwards, unless you have any other qualms."

"No," Harry responded darkly as he walked back into the house. With more power than he meant to, he slammed the screen door. "I don't."

Ω

Malfoy Manor was a large, gothic structure in the middle of Wiltshire forest – it resembled almost a castle with flawless white bricks and spires that reached towards the sky and large windows to allow sunlight. No matter how much Harry tried, he could not peer into the house – charms seemed to make the windows one-way. The lawn was plain besides the marble pathway to the massive doorway, and the façade was just as mundane. However, Harry suspected that the modesty of the outside would become even uncanny after seeing the inside.

Dumbledore didn't hesitate to knock on the door and the Malfoys did not put of a show of pretending they weren't waiting. A small house-elf opened massive door with a strain, his large eyes bright. He reminded Harry of Doby, though the nose was sharper, the ears droopier, and there was a perpetual happiness in his overlarge eyes instead of Doby's rebellious air. Harry supposed they learned a lesson since he liberated Doby from their cruelty

"Welcome Sirs!" the elf exclaimed ecstatically. "Mistress Malfoy and Mistress LeStrange and Master Malfoy are expecting you in the parlor. You should come with Pippy, yes! Can Pippy take Sir's overcoat?"

"There is no need, Pippy," Dumbledore said graciously. "I trust we will not be staying long."

The elf faltered, but regained his cheer; he obviously didn't question much. "Oh, yes, yes; follow Pippy yes!" He shot down a corridor that seemed to have been made out of pure, sparkling crystal, kicking his ankles together in joy.

"He's been spoiled," the wizard mused aloud to Harry with a wink.

Speaking about spoiled, Harry glanced around the door-less corridor, staring inquisitively at the diamond encrusted candles floating overhead, the ice-shine walls, the slick green marble floors. Obviously the Malfoys weren't worried too much about their gold, nor were they candid on their Hogwarts' house; the house was decorated in various shades of silver and white and viridian, focal points dressed in black. Harry only snorted; if Malfoy stepped into a house built off of red and gold, he wouldn't hesitate to call them sappy Gryffindors.

"This way, this way, Sirs!" the house-elf called, attempting to open up a large, emerald door with much effort. Harry immediately assisted him, grabbing a serpentine handle and pulling vainly.

"What type of trick is this?" Harry demanded, falling on his bottom. Already the Malfoys are showing evil intentions, he thought angrily.

"A test," Dumbledore responded, peering at the gem-adorned door. "It seems they're more curious about you than they've let on."

"Who?"

"The Death Eaters, of course," the older wizard responded easily. He spoke the words as if he was merely speaking about a group of schoolyard rebels rather than a nefarious organization. "All who know you, Harry, are wondering of your special powers – the ones that Voldemort has given to you by accident. Some think it makes you more like him; other's think it defines you as something more. It seems the Death Eaters haven't made a distinction."

Harry ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. He not only wanted very much not to be here, but he definitely didn't want to go through some ridiculous Slytherin tricks. He imagined Malfoy on the opposite side of the wall, laughing as he extracted his brand of antagonizing revenge.

"I have to speak Parseltongue at the door," Harry stated flatly, staring into the jeweled eyes of the serpent knocker. "This is all they want to know right?"

"Understand," Dumbledore began, "the most famous Parselmouths are Voldemort and Salazar. It's a very uncommon, idolized skill, one that by chance you have. It's an anomaly, a question they haven't quite answered. I'm sure that Voldemort would prefer to keep your powers, or the fact that he accidentally made you his equal to himself. I also believe that they chose not to rely simply on the rumors, or the Younger Malfoy's account."

"Seems like a ton of bullocks if you ask me," he growled under his breath, pacing like a caged animal. Dumbledore remained passive as Harry tugged on his hair once more, eyes wild and desperate. He was unwilling to succumb to the Dark Arts invested in him, to rely on the most prevalent connection between him and Voldemort.

"Well how did they get in there? I know the ferret," he added extra emphasis if Malfoy was indeed listening on the other side of the door, "can't speak Parseltongue

"There is probably another entrance, or perhaps Pippy has a way to override the mechanisms, for he is a house elf and their power is unlimited, albeit restricted by the whim of their masters."

Another growl on Harry's part, which sounded more like a groan of resignation. Dumbledore merely flourished a hand at the knocker in question, his eyes flickering to the elf waiting silently by the door, its large eyes almost apologetic.

Swallowing his pride, Harry focused on the knocker. Speaking Parseltongue was less of an internal decision than it was an act. It flowed fluidly off Harry's lips in a serious of hissings, demanding the door to open with some colorful language that would have made Dumbledore blush if he knew what Harry picked up in the Gryffindor common rooms. The curled snake unfurled its tail, slithering until it was vertical from the floor. Starting from the top of the doorway to the tiled floor, a slice of light severed the snake's belly revealing that the door was in fact two. They wheezed open before the two wizards.

The circular room defied the Manor's Slytherin theme – instead, it was a beige similar to the color of wheat, but not quite. Dusky orange furnishings and spicy autumnal red reminded Harry of the equinox and gave him a strong desire for pumpkin juice. The real amazement of the room was that the northern wall well, was not there, except for a thin railing Draco Malfoy was leaning upon. The git looked skinnier, paler, and he grew his hair out so he looked like a bloody ponce or worse - his father. It screened his face in a sheet of silver, which was nice, Harry had to admit, if Malfoy was a girl.

Narcissa Malfoy, or the woman Harry assumed her to be, was sitting daintily on a chaise lounge, her legs sideways and toes pointing to the floor in a patrician fashion. Her hands were clasped in her lap, but her thumbs kept fooling with the satin of her dress. She looked a lot like Malfoy (or vice versa), Harry thought, taking in the woman's straight nose and platinum hair.

Finally, the other one was pacing by the fireplace, curls erratic and clothes askew as if she just woke up. Her mad eyes focused on Potter the minute he stepped across the threshold, a grin slashing across her lips. Harry felt red, and hot under the collar, eyes watering with such loathing he could barely stand. A number of spells graced through his head, all beginning and ending with Avada Kedavra, but he managed to keep his wand safely placed in his pocket. A difference perhaps between him and Voldemort. Harry glanced at Dumbledore and saw him nod approvingly. It did little to lessen the painful heat in the middle of Harry's chest.

"Mr. Potter," Narcissa lilted, "it's a pleasure to meet you."

"Same to you," Harry responded dryly, his eyes only for Bellatrix.

"And Professor Dumbledore, I'm afraid it has been too long," Narcissa continued, standing and curtsying in Dumbledore's direction, who surprisingly bowed.

"Ah, Mrs. Malfoy, I can surely speak volumes with my nostalgia, as well as with recollections of you, Mrs. LeStrange, but I have come for another reason." Dumbledore's eyes sparkled and Harry felt sick; the old croon was probably getting a thrill out of standing in the enemy's lair. "And partly because I'm sure I would tire you with stories of the past."

Narcissa smiled surprisingly, her pretty blue eyes gentle. She tilted her chin to a transfigured sofa. "Oh please, Professor, do take a seat. That courtesy is extended as well to you Mr. Potter. Can I interest either of you in refreshment? Tea perhaps?"

"I would take your offer, however we are only meant to stay for a limited time, just to sort out Sirius's will," Dumbledore said amicably, yet sternly. He was no fool. They probably would spike it with nasty poisons concocted by Snape himself.

"Oh very well," Narcissa responded. She turned to Pippy, who suddenly had a stack of quill-scratched papers. "Professor, I offer these for your oversight. They're the deeds and history of the place, if you are interested in reviewing them. I was not sure what you may be interested in, for you can imagine how astonished I was with your firecall."

Narcissa then prattled on about Grimmauld Place, which Dumbledore seemed intrigued by (as if he hadn't previously inhabited the home). She seemed to ramble just to experience Dumbledore's company, which was odd in its own right. All the while Harry kept an eye on the "others," his wand hand flexed and ready in case they decided to attack. However, the two seemed completely disinterested in their company.

The ferret seemed content gazing out at the sunset, his pale hair collecting the color so it seemed almost gold. His back was straight, almost as if he was nervous. Nevertheless he pretended as if he was alone. The other one (for Harry refused to use her given name, regardless of whatever confusion it created) was pacing, pinching her nails into the skin of her arm. She was chanting something under her breath, which seemed like mere nonsense words.

In conclusion, Harry was sorely disappointed. He had fantasized having a reason to put his wand to the Heathen's throat on the way to Wiltshire.

"So in other words," Narcissa said, "it is a simple magic, one I had searched in my books for and found quite easily."

Dumbledore looked speculative, which put Harry on edge. "This is an extremely basic magic, but one that invokes such power. I don't understand how it works."

Narcissa blushed, and she looked pretty. Harry supposed that's why Lucius had fancied her – Narcissa was a lovely woman with a nice, soothing voice. For a Death Eater, anyway. "You see, when we, the 'heirs' join hands and in turn the mediator says the incantation, we are in turn testing… the tenor of our power. The spell is under the assumption that we are blood-related (forgive this, it is an ancient pure-blood ritual) and will test our magic systematically; Sirius's will is interlaced with our magic, thus, the spell will strip from our magic the power of inheritance. Please, do not be worried, Mr. Potter," Narcissa said, gazing at him. "There is no ability for us to influence, direct, or change anything about your being. We cannot cause harm to you – it is located deep in the magic of the spell, for our ancestors, when they were to find the correct heir, often wished ill of each other."

"We will know who the heir is by what?" Dumbledore continued.

"Oh; I believe we just know," Narcissa said with a nervous giggle Harry found suspicious. "Similar to the way we are all aware of the magic we each contain without having to whisper a single spell. It is another failsafe, in order to stop the progression of more untimely deaths.

"You shall be our mediator, Dumbledore, to ensure that no wickedness occurs, though I assure you that the spell is quite safe and I would never wish harm on Mr. Potter in my home."

Harry fought the urge to point out to Dumbledore the key words, in my home, and won. Instead he gazed furiously at the three Malfoys; he would have to join hands with them. He would not mind holding hands with Narcissa for one; she seemed alright, for a Death Eater. On the other hand, it was a struggle to choose between the ferret and Bellatrix. Rage filled him as he stared at her, his fingers itching towards his wand. The only thing that kept him from striking was the fact that an instant of belligerence on his part would most likely doom him and Dumbledore to death, and that he would plan something more slow and painful for her in the future.

Another way Voldemort and I are one and the same, Harry's more nefarious part seethed; we both would enjoy the suffering of those who hurt us.

He shook his head to clean it.

"Draco," Narcissa beckoned quietly. Malfoy stood rigidly and robotically, striding over to his mother with a strange obedience. Harry gazed hard at him and noticed something; although the blond was physically there, he seemed mentally not, like a zombie. That explained the quietness of him. Harry expected some sort of outburst the minute he walked through the door, or at least with the prospect of holding hands.

"Pippy," Malfoy called and the house elf appeared automatically. "I would like a pillow for the floor, suitable for our guest as well as your masters to sit upon."

"Yes master!" the house elf said energetically, clapping his hands. A large red and gold (Harry raised his eyebrow as Malfoy gaped) pillow was dropped on the floor. Narcissa wasted no time, standing up delicately and stepping towards the pillow. She sat down delicately, arranging her skirts.

"Draco," she hedged once more, and the blond sat across from his mother. She then looked at Harry expectantly, who hesitated.

"You'll be fine," Dumbledore assured him in an undertone, his wand brandished and steady. That calmed the Gryffindor enough that he awkwardly plopped down between Narcissa and Malfoy.

That left the other one.

"Bellatrix, sister, will you join us?" Narcissa inquired, voice carrying minor authority.

For a heartbeat, the Heathen pretended not to have listened, but the effect was immediate. She began to shade red, her eyes narrowing and lips thinning. She paused midstride glared at Harry, hate expressed mutually between them. Then, almost like a kettle, she began to fill up with steam until she burst in a shriek, "Why should I cooperate with these, these mudbloods?" She even stamped her feet.

"Bellatrix," Narcissa hissed under her breath. The lady of the house rose and grabbed her sister by the shoulder and gave it a firm shake like she would scold a petulant toddler. Harry refused the urge to snicker, instead looking at the amusement on Dumbledore's face; it was a misplaced sense of amusement, one Harry suspected went deeper than the Heathen (the name was beginning to grow on Harry) being scolded by her superior, younger sister. They exchanged brief, quiet words before the brunette assented.

The Heathen met Harry's eyes firmly, a sick smile on her face. "Know that I'm not doing this to be any assistance to you Potter – I killed Sirius. It would only agree with me more if I got his petty possessions too."

Harry snarled to himself, but managed to stay calm. Dumbledore briefed him on this before they left. The Heathen was only waiting for Harry to react so she had a reason to attack; otherwise, unprovoked, she was not allowed to do anything. Voldemort, supposedly, was saving Harry for himself.

A tense moment came when they had to hold hands. Narcissa offered her dainty palms first, and Harry (although all instinct told him otherwise) grasped it. The other one stared at it as if she forgot what she had to do. Mad eyes seeking Harry's, she grasped Narcissa's hand and grabbed at Malfoy's. In turn, Malfoy offered his hand and Harry grabbed it, making sure his grip was terribly tight. The blond winced, and shouldered him discretely, but hard.

"Relax," Narcissa murmured so softly the others did not hear it.

Dumbledore began the incantation, the words fluid, entangling Latin. He imagined them as climbing ivy, completely intertwined with power. For some reason they took some of the tension away. His eyes fell shut. Dumbledore's voice became more and more distant. A muted fear caught at him; did they kill him? No – Dumbledore would know, and the sage wizard seemed to continue the incantation. A strange realization came to him; he was meditating further and further into himself, by force… no, by choice. Or both.

He never felt more aware of himself as he did at this moment; he could feel his heart beating, his lungs stuttering, his magic pulsating. Previously, magic never felt particularly palpable; the effect of a spell, yes. Or that fleeting moment right before a Patronus erupted from his wand. But now, it felt like a flowing river through each vein, conquering the blood there and filling him with some sort of ethereal, powerful light.

It started as a pinch in his side, annoying but bearable. Harry had a high tolerance for pain. Soon the pinch became a searing stab. And then, oh Merlin, and then, it was as if the flesh was being burned away from his body. He resisted the urge to scream – the pain, God, the pain! He felt himself thrash, his breath come in whinging gasps. His heart was beating too quickly. His magic, that stream, that palpable force, was leaving him at a surprising rate. He was being bled dry.

"Stop!" he hollered from deep in his belly, but the words were not conceived. His screams remained in his belly, bubbling acidly. Somewhere over the din, Dumbledore continued to chant. Somewhere over the algesia, he could feel Narcissa squeeze his hand in what felt like reassurance.

Subsequently, the pain stopped and flame reared around him, enveloping him. Hell, he decided. The muggles had it right all along.

But what was strange was that the heat, which he knew should have burned him alive (or adead, whichever), it felt pleasant. It was a different type of kindled flame. At the back of his head, he understood; this was his magic, released from his body in a tangible force.

With much forcing he opened his eyes a slit. It was an odd maneuver, as if trying to swim through marmalade, but he made it. He could barely see through a glittering green veil of flame that covered the circle. Besides him, Narcissa looked as if in rapture, a beaded sheet over her skin, like pearls. Narcissa's counterpart was similar, except her magic seemed more like interlocking grains of sand. Forcing his head to turn, he saw Malfoy, who looked Petrified. Dark blue fire licked across his face, his hands, and mingled with Harry's creating a beetle-black.

His eyes, out of their own volition, snapped shut and Harry was pushed back into the center of his being. It felt like several lifetimes, or just a second. It was a state of stickiness, of being lost within quicksand.

Soon, it began to alleviate, the pressure. His magic flowed back inside him with minor pain, like a blood transfusion. However, towards the end, a blinding spasm struck him and he felt faint. He knew he had inherited the Sirius's estate, but there was something else as well – something more he inherited, but he couldn't name it.

This time, when the blackness enveloped him, it was of a more stealing kind that pushed him closer to death than before. And then he was unconscious.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Took some time with this chapter. Hope that it is satisfactory (albeit a little dark). Thanks for the reviews, and I hopefully await many more (:**

**ALLOWANCES **

Very carefully, Draco began the ascension to consciousness, although he was quite comfortable in the enveloping oblivion. His limbs felt too heavy, his head too small for his shoulders. It was if he had undergone some spontaneous growth spurt his internal system had yet to recognize. And with all these _changes_, came this unbelievable sense of unadulterated power. Draco was always very aware of his magical capabilities; he understood that a wizard was merely a host to the magic abundant in the environment. It was the wizard's ability to channel the magic that made him powerful. However, now, it seemed as if the magic withheld underneath Draco's skin had tripled while his body shrank. Power pulsated within his veins, wanting desperately to be released. It was an irritating, pricking pain throughout every cell of his being, one that caused him to curl on his side like a child. He willed the pain away, compartmentalizing the ache until he could focus on the _why_.

Cunningly, he continued to act as if unconscious and eavesdropped on the conversation; _surprisingly_, it was very dull.

"Mr. Potter, I am _ashamed_ that what I thought was a simple spell caused you so much harm. I pledge, under your scrutiny or Veritaserum or any other means of truth-telling that I had no nefarious plot."

"I'm sure Harry understands that, Mrs. Malfoy." It took Draco several tries to figure the voice before he placed it as the headmaster. Perhaps the spell had tired him more than he assumed prior.

There was a pause, and when Narcissa spoke, it was in an undertone. "Do you have an inkling, professor, as to why this occurred?"

"I suppose it is because they are underage – the abundance of physical magic may have overwhelmed them. I am sure that neither boy has experienced pure magic other than the effect of a spell. This was conjuring elements; they have not reached this level of study or familiarization."

_Leave it to Dumbledore to have the answers_. But that was not what Draco wanted to hear; no, he wanted to know what _Potter_ was up to. It seemed, from his mother's extensive apology, the doltish Gryffindor was affected from the spell whereas his aunt and mother were unaffected. _But _how? Their age seemed irrelevant, no matter what Dumbledore said – Draco was well read. He knew of only a few certain, spells which would cause a side-reaction based on age.

"Will Draco be…?" There was a whisper of fabric, indicative of someone moving, and then a sloping shadow over Draco's skin. A cool hand was pressed to his forehead and he unintentionally leaned into it, smelling the powdery scent of his mother's perfume.

"He's awake now, if you wish to ask your son himself," Dumbledore responded, voice thickly amused. Draco cursed; he was a lot happier trying to glean information this way, however useless it may be.

Narcissa brushed her lips against Draco's forehead in a rare allowance of affection. She then stepped away.

"Regardless, Mr. Potter, I do sincerely apologize."

"Its fine, Mrs. Malfoy; I'm alright." That lethargic, unintelligible mumble was none-other than Potter. It _had _to be. Forget the shoddy explanation Dumbledore offered; Draco's internal system must have shut down with a simple touch from the Chosen Prat.

There were more formalities, a couple of boring reassurances from Potter, an extravagant thank you from the headmaster, and then they were gone. Done with feigning a stupor, Draco rose from his sick-bed, blinking as he took in the room. It was darker than when he was once conscious, the sky covered in stars. The moon hung low, and was the only light in the room, casting Narcissa's pale face in a radiant glow.

"Are you the heir?"

The origin of the voice was practically concealed from Draco's position. With a shift, he was able to glance into the furthermost corner by the door where Bellatrix had hidden. The woman was veiled in black, her dark curls nearly hiding her face. She looked strangely pensive, hands locked in her lap.

_"Are you the heir?"_

"I don't _know_," Draco spat in response. He really was unafraid of Bellatrix, regardless of her insanity. He also held no respect for her. Although he was no fan of Sirius Black, Narcissa had often taught Draco the importance of family before all other allegiances. There should be no award for Bellatrix in the slaughter of her own brother.

"Search your feelings, you will," Narcissa said softly, peering at Draco gently. "I am certain that you are not though, Draco."

As his mother said the words, Draco was positive she was right. It was an odd feeling, as if he was recalling potion ingredients; he knew, without a doubt that he was not the heir. Annoyingly, however, he also knew that in turn Potter must have been. For some reason, that irked Draco unreasonably.

Regardless, he shook his head, adding a venomous, "_No_," for Bellatrix's benefit.

"Fuck," Bellatrix growled, standing. She proceeded to prowl the room. "We gained nothing from this."

"We gained trust," Mrs. Malfoy lilted. She tilted her head in a way reminiscent of an owl.

Draco said nothing, only gazing out blearily at the sky. He had protested just as adamantly against opening their doors for Potter as his aunt. Obviously, to no avail.

"And what will that do for your son?" Bellatrix queried in her raspy voice, slightly mystified.

Narcissa grimaced. "It will allow him to get closer to Potter and allow Draco to reach his task more easily."

Draco stiffened. He did not particularly consider how he was going to off Potter, but he also knew his plan did not involve getting chummy with the Chosen Bastard. He was actually still quite put-out by his mother forbidding him to cause any physical harm to Potter – that and the fact Dumbledore's presence spoiled the evening. However, considering it now, it did seem rather ideal. A frown tugged his porcelain lips. Killing Potter this night was a bit _too_ simple. The more he mused, the more he knew he would have felt like a cheated child on Christmas. He _wanted_ a public execution. A way to illustrate his mastery in magic. _Something_ more complex than _Avada Kedavra_, if only to show up the Dark Lord. It could be a documentary, a brilliant expose on the idiocy of Gryffindor trust and morale. The thought was appealing. He could imagine Potter's face screwed up in idiocy and betrayal, right before the light left his eyes. It was perfect, _too_ perfect.

He grinned in the dark, even more pleased when Bellatrix stalked away, looking as if she was on the verge of combustion. His mother made moves to follow her sister, but hesitated, staring after Draco. A haunted expression overcame her face, darkening her blue eyes, and ridding Draco's smile as if pouring a sluice of cold water overhead.

Draco watched her wearily, curious as to what speech she would spew tonight. However, she surprised him when she turned away with a shake of her head. The hopeless movement ripped at his chest, but he ignored the sting. She would understand one day why he undertook what he did. Until then…, well, Draco would simply have to swallow her disapproval by the pint and hope not to become poisoned.

Ω

The hawthorn wand felt foreign in his fist, as if the past five years had not eased the transition to familiarity. It was an unbalancing feeling, hence why Draco had released the book about rare potions (a little research on how to rid himself of the Boy-Who-Needs-to-Die), to stare in wonder at it. _It _was a trusty wand, reasonably springy and a good length. He was always a bit upset that his wand was merely an inch shorter than Potter's, but the length suited it – it was an agile wand, thin with a unicorn hair core (_Which is much more superior and majestic than a phoenix feather_). It had saved his arse many a time, had served his dirty-work efficiently.

Since that stupid accident with the Heir Ritual, it felt as if his wand was inadequate. It still worked faithfully, lighting the candles Draco had littered the library with. But it felt…well, _foreign._

Draco placed his wand gently on the side-table's delicate doily, like leading a tired friend to bed, and grasped the heavy leather-bound tome he found in the library on the ritual. It was an easy read, explaining little back-story on pure-blood magicks. It's a simple idea to wrap his mind around; inheritance spells were not bestowed on DNA or other foolish, muggle ways of singling out people. Instead, it was gifted to the tenor in magic; each family had a certain coding in their abilities, a certain similarity. The spell was twined into that coding, seeking out the heir in a certain dissension of qualities; purity of blood, age, and then gender. There were other factors, such as the whim of the deceased, and their ability to affect the spell to certain demographics. But other than that, it was fairly simple.

The ritual was to release the magic in each host's body and test it for the entwining of the inheritance spell. The more Draco read, the more amazingly simple it was. And more confusing it was to explain what had occurred. He read more diligently, but the chapter ended. There was no clause on how it may affect underage wizards. Nothing.

Draco growled, tossing the book from him. It flew into the bookcase more powerfully then he intended, knocking a shelf. Books littered the floor in a matter of seconds, the bookcase toppling in entirety. It began a domino effect, until the once luxurious library was a crime scene. Immediately, Pippy appeared and began to fix it with his magic. The cases were once erect, the books alphabetized to Draco's preference in mere minutes – seven to be exact. Draco watched as Pippy levitated the books onto the shelves, mesmerized by the ease of the actions.

_The hardest problems…straightforward answers,_ Draco reminded himself, massaging his temples. Another book. That's what he needed. But first he needed to think on what happened. Recall the details.

He was halted from doing so when he heard movement at the entrance to the library; from the tap of dragon-hide boots, he figured it to be Blaise. Then the smell hit him, the silky smooth scent of Italian summer fruits. He sighed, biting back apologies for their last meeting, deciding it was simply Blaise's fault in the first place. If he was not so eagerly trying to push the unspoken boundaries, urged by Pansy's doltishness, then their argument would not have occurred.

The creak of the wooden floors was indicative of Blaise kneeling before him – he felt the fabric of the Italian's shirt brush his knees. He leaned in, replacing Draco's fingers with his own. He pressed his slender thumbs to Draco's temples, careful not to ruffle the blond's hair. He knew too well what mussing the well-kept hair would do. An irate giant was nothing compared to the hour long whinging-fit Draco could spew.

"You're stressed." No preamble, no greeting.

Draco bit back something sharp, instead replied with a short, "Ye_s_." He breathed in Blaise's sweet breath, which was as calming as it was stimulating.

The hands moved, curving around his chin, traveling down his neck with an exacerbated slowness. He felt them touch on his belt, undoing it carefully, then unbuttoning the several bronze fastenings. He fished for Draco's cock and fed it through the slit of his silky pants. Just the attention began to fill the organ with blood. But it was a half-hearted erection; Draco was not as turned on as he wished to be. It was rare that Blaise would get on his knees without coercing, but for some reason it was not as arousing as it should have been.

Regardless, Draco had no qualms when the brunet took him in the mouth, finding it rather pleasant. His mind kept whirling however, thinking of plans and musings; he began to consider what it would be like to have Potter this submissive, this demoralized. Oddly, Draco found it exciting; he came a shortly after, laughter on his lips. _Potter_ on his knees for _Draco_? Oh, how rich. How delightfully, deliciously rich.

How perfect.

He finally opened his eyes then, gazing dizzily at the Italian. He was carefully pulling off his muggle-blazer and draping it over the back of a chair. Draco raised a single hand to halt him, his afterglow fading fast.

"Not today Blaise – I have research to do."

The Italian frowned, brushing back his thick curls. There was something unfathomable in his face, then he smiled stonily. He had lit a cigarette at his lips in record time, probably to rid himself of the sticky taste of Draco's cum.

"On what now?"

For some reason, the question was grating. "Ways to off bloody Potter."

"All work and no play makes Malfoy a dull boy," Blaise teased, making sure to take on a sultry tone. He sat adjacent to Draco, puffing at his fag with a casual air, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His eyes were highly amused. "Have you any idea of how you want to do it?"

"Not quick, no," Draco said immediately in his drawling tone. His thoughts were resolved, but his restraint too scattered by the remarkable orgasm Blaise urged. Thus, he shared the inner-workings of his mind. "I need to mortify him to the fullest extent." The Slytherin paused. Then grinned. "My mother gave me an idea; to befriend the ridiculous Gryffindor and then off him. Perhaps I can make him bend for me."

Blaise coughed, choking on smoke. "You're _not_ serious are you?"

"Well, yes, I am. And why not? I think it's fair enough to shag him to death, don't you? Give him a little pleasure. He'd be making my life wonderful with his last breath; it's a decent trade off." Draco smiled adoringly at Blaise.

"You're mad," the Italian managed, the air of nonchalance dissipating. His face darkened, brows shading his eyes black. "Completely, bloody, irrevocably mad." He wiped a hand over his lips, as if ashamed now of bringing the blond off. "You're not even sure if you can _kill_ the prat in the first place by regular means. He is a _wary_, _accomplished_ wizard." He spat the words. "The Dark Lord could not even succeed."

"He had too much hubris," Draco explained off-handedly.

"And you don't?"

The question struck Draco as odd, thus he disregarded it. Instead, he realized his cock was still lying limp between his thighs. He stood and refastened his trousers, walking casually over to a bookcase for a volume on wand-lore. If he was in private, he may have skulked, may have growled under his breath, for he was that frustrated. It was, perhaps, a bit idiotic to mention to Blaise his ideas for Potter – much less acknowledge the foolish ideas as more than just musings – but when was it suddenly allowed for Blaise to get off as righteous? And when did it become alright to act as if they were more than fuck-buddies?

Those ridiculously persuasive hands gripped his hips, pulling his arse flush against Blaise's crotch. They slid up Draco's shirt and massaged his pelvic bones, causing goose-pimples. "If you truly want to know, I'd rather you not shag your nemesis, Draco." He nipped at the blond's ear.

"Don't start on me about fidelity again."

Blaise sighed. "I'm not; I know I was wrong about that. You've been with no one but me; I understand that, thus my pleading was an insult. But really, _Potter_? Do you think that I can't shag you better?"

"It's not like I fantasize about the prat." _Just shaming him to the most painful degree,_ Draco added internally. "I simply thought it would be a punishment. But suddenly you're as sensitive as Pansy and don't appreciate my randy humor."

Blaise bit hard at Draco's ear, sighing once more when he pulled away. He lit up again, almost immediately. The room was already smoky with the cigarette plumes. A silence overcame them, and it gave Draco a moment to look for his book. One eye read the names along the spines, while the other gauged Blaise's expression from under pale eyelashes. The Italian was gazing out of the window, smoking to his heart's content. There was something in his eyes that kept him from looking dazed or pensive; there was something drawing his lips as well. Draco surmised the emotion, but couldn't place the origin. He turned his whole attentions back to the volumes.

Blaise made a soft sound in the back of his throat, as if to regain Draco's interest. "I found this of particular comedic value earlier." He paused, leaning against the bookcase. "Theo is planning a masquerade party."

Draco couldn't find the energy to snort. Instead he sneered. "Leave it to Nott to struggle for originality. Has he made it more specific than that?"

"No," Blaise replied, another puff of his fag. "But I was thinking of what we should go as. Not that it would matter, seeing as your hair is a dead giveaway."

"I don't particularly want to go as _anything_. I'll wear a mask, to humor the traitor, but I _will_ not succumb. I am there only to gather information, and nothing more." Draco immediately attempted to ignore the forlorn look on Blaise's face, but it was annoying. Acting on that, he tossed a grin over his shoulder. "Besides, I don't want us to look too different Blaise. Your heart may stop if some inbred fool tried to touch me; an _Unforgivable_ may ruin the festive atmosphere."

Blaise's lips softened to a smile, then smirked. He sidled closer, fragrance oozing from his pores. "But don't you want to play a little game? I could be anyone for you, anyone you desire."

The thought was deviously and wholly Slytherin patented; it made Draco's mouth dry. Draco, however, regained composure immediately. His mind whirled just as swiftly, as he devised a plan. He decided to test Blaise's reaction to certain stimulants, all of course, ending with Draco's wicked means.

"For now, you're the one I desire."

Ugh, Hufflepuff. But it was applicable here – it was merely an assessment of Draco's charm.

Blaise's pupils dilated. Draco watched curiously, wondering at which point such words could have such an effect on an individual. _Certainly they would never affect me this powerfully. _The Italian swaggered forward, pressing his growing groin against Draco's; the blond resigned, leaning towards him. There was no way to avoid Blaise now, as provoked as he was. Draco thought of ways he may be able to all-throughout their rowdy love-making. He came much longer after Blaise, attesting it to the nice blow-job he had earlier. And when they lay in the middle of the library, Draco couldn't stand the idea of Italian wrapping around him (although he relented). It was too Gryffindor, too sensitive, too….

Draco considered many possibilities. But it few of them appealed as much as demoralizing the Gryffindor. Oh, rape was out of the question – it was nasty, for one, and far below a Slytherin; perhaps a rotten Hufflepuff. No, Potter would have to come willingly to his death bed. Draco surmised the prat to be a virgin; too easy. _Too easy_. He imagined the scenario; he would start off being remorseful, sweet. The mudblood would fall quickly, Weasel would be too confused to be any help. Potter would be wary, curious. Perhaps take his cloak for a test run and follow Draco around again. Draco'd feign forgiveness, give him gifts, and perhaps assist him in class or something. He'd get closer, carefully snog Potter when he would be unawares. Give it a month, make him desire Draco until he bit his nails to the quick. And shag him too amazingly and violently that Potter would be shot into oblivion, far before Draco would give him the finishing blow. He would play in missionary, to see Potter's face in raw pleasure before his demise. Or perhaps he would simply incarcerate him and bring him to Voldemort's feet, then off him. Yes – that'd be better.

The plan came together the more the cogs in Draco's head turned. He tested his flirtatious skill on Blaise – a Hufflepuff comment here, Ravenclaw stares there, a Gryffindor persistence in bed. He noted the way Blaise's composure began to crack; he was getting sappy, sloppy in bed, wanting to be held and kissed instead of roughly shagged. It was fucking annoying, except that the brunet was more willing to get on his knees, practically anywhere. And he had more of an appetite, needing to be bedded every other day. Draco's cock was beginning to feel raw from the attention.

He tried on Pansy as well, when he was not feeling as disgusted as usual with her. She would bat her eyes and smile, lean forwards. But she was easy. _Too easy._

He needed a new culprit.

_Nott._

Perfect.

Ω

The room was spacious, not wholly cavernous in size, but because of its gloomy ambiance, akin to a cave. A strange, eerie red light flooded the area so the Death-Eaters could see, but it did nothing to alleviate the dank black. Nothing adorned the wall; nothing on the floor besides a large, emerald carpet, stained with what Draco guessed was blood. There was no seating on the rug, other than the throne fixed affront of the roaring fireplace. Draco's eyes fell upon it as always, unwilling to gaze at his peers surrounding the room, like shadows in the walls. He distracted himself by following the sloping curves and lines of the pure marble. There was no comfort in the seat. A python (or what Draco surmised it to be) motif twirled around the armrest in embellishment, beautiful in its cold form. But it was there the beauty began and ended.

Draco rose his eyes slowly, remorsefully, to cast upon Him, then looked quickly away. There was something in His face, a maliciousness, which made Draco feel ill. However, Draco quickly cast those emotions to the farthest region of his mind, keeping the forefront meticulously clean. Snape had taught him the basics of Occlumency, and although Draco did pretty well in the area of magic, he never once entertained the thought that he was a superior Occlumens to the Dark Lord's talent for Legilimency. The Dark Lord just had a way with human beings. He could chew them and spit them out, exponentially darker, crazier, with the twitch of his fingers. Draco had seen it many a time. Mostly on his father.

However, this time, the Dark Lord had cast mercy on the Malfoy-Black line; instead, his victim for tonight was Igor Karkaroff. The once tall man was on his knees, spine curved in an atrocious angle so his silvery head touched the floor. He was shaking violently – it made Draco feel sick – and sobs shuddered from his chest.

"Forgive me my Lord – forgive me! I am merely human… I… I… I make mistakes, my Lord! I am not like you – you are godlike, my savior!" He looked up with shining eyes, hair limp with sweat.

The Dark Lord grinned, or rather upturned his slit of a mouth. A series of hissings were issued next. He paused, then nodded, satisfied with whatever he heard that the rest of them could not.

Draco looked away as the Dark Lord gave Karkaroff a _Crucio_, hands twisting behind his spine to rid himself of the tension. He studied the masks adorned around him. They were elaborate, some personified for the wearer. Bellatrix, for example, had managed to carve an image of a mutt into the twirls and designs, signifying the quick death she brought to her brother. When Draco was finally Marked, he considered having a stag (for Potter's patronus) ingrained in his mask. That's if….

_Salazar… the screaming…!_

No – next, next: _focus_.

A slither came from between his legs; he stood stalk still as Nagini made her way to her master, constricting around his ankles as she went. She shot Draco a malevolent grin, more human than actually snake-like, and tongued the air. She probably tasted Draco's unease.

The Dark Lord pet the snake dutifully on the head, glancing once at Draco. It was a searing moment that Draco felt throughout his bones like a magnified Pepper-Up. His heart palpitated and sweat began to form on his lower back, but he remained calm. He didn't fidget, or look away, or shake. He was beyond childish antics as such. It felt like eons, but it lasted a second. The Dark Lord matched Nagini's smile, then turned to the man falling apart at his feet.

"You are no longer fit to live," the Dark Lord declared. "And all you, who are like him. Those who defy me. He may have outrun me. Yet he has returned so willingly with excuses of his insubordination. It was out of self-preservation that he returned, for he is selfish and mindless. And now he will suffer."

Kakaroff screamed, and from the way he was hopelessly gazing at the Dark Lord, Draco knew he was being tortured through the mind. Perhaps imagining the skin being peeled away layer by layer. Lucius had explained, when Draco had shared his intentions with his father, that that was how it felt, for him anyway. He had said so with such a chilled expression, his eyes wide and mad, that Draco nearly faltered, as He said, out of self-preservation. Ironically, it is for the preservation of his name that he stands in minor rank among the Death Eaters.

"I will torture you until you beg for death," He continued silibantly, and with his wand, spun Karkaroff around, contorting his body until his arse was high in the air, face in the ground. He gazes around at the Death Eaters, tongue flickering out and tasting the fear. "But I will not allow it to come."

He clawed the trousers off Karkaroff, leaving his arse bare, and forced himself inside, first by his wand, and then by his…

_Salazar,_ Draco didn't want to watch. He couldn't. His eyes were burning, trying to close, but he could not show weakness.

Blood began to stream down the backs of Karkaroff's thighs as he let out screams from his very core. Fortunately, they were muffled by the carpet, but were still as horrifying.

Sweat dripped into Draco's eye like poison, and burned.

"Notice how he squeals, like an animal! Like _a_ pig to the slaughter! Mindless!" the Dark Lord laughed, tossing his head back. He stopped his rigid movements, and poised his wand over Karkaroff's spine. From the way the traitor screamed, it was a _Crucio_ so powerful he vibrated in place. And by the way the Dark Lord let out a hiss, that was the desired effect.

Draco's eyes closed, nails biting into his palms.

"Take him away. I am not through with him yet," the Dark Lord said when the cries ended. Draco dared open his eyes then, and indexed Karkaroff. He was still breathing, blood streaming from gouges on his bare arse, coating his thighs vivid red. His lips were red and swollen, drying blood coating his thinning hair.

Two Death Eaters levitated the unconscious Karkaroff into another room, who twitched like an animal. Draco refocused his eyes on the fresh blood splatters on the rug, fighting the bile rising in his throat.

"Malfoy!"

His eyes shot up warily and into the slits of the Dark Lord. He was sitting now on his throne, his wand held aloft, his other hand beckoning. Blood dampened the front of his robes. Nagini was contentedly flickering her tongue to taste the stains. Draco's stomach heaved. "Come here, boy."

Draco stepped forward, chin coming up higher as he steadied himself. _I must remain strong,_ he chanted, then locked it away, letting it play in the sound of his boots as he came ever nearer. He met the Dark Lord's eyes and ignored the incinerating aspect of the gaze. He would hold it as long as he needed to.

"Sir," he said reverently, with a formal, flourishing bow.

"Was he important to you?"

"Pardon, sir?" Draco cocked his head and bemoaned his stupidity. He was caught off-guard. He would not make the same mistake twice.

"I did not stutter, Malfoy," He said impatiently.

"No, sir, the traitor was of no significance to me."

The Dark Lord grinned, petting Nagini on the head. She looked up from her master's robes and fixed her eyes on Draco. "Then explain to me why you could to witness his punishment? Do you feel pity for him? Are you so weak that you have _sympathy?_ Concern for his wellbeing?"

"_No,_ sir," Draco said, forcing himself to remain eloquent although his eyes were beginning to tear. He took comfort in the fact that the Dark Lord had not yet breached his mind in torturous intent as He had his father. "I merely could not stand the sight of a loathsome _rat_ returning to your presence"

He chortled something between a laugh and a hiss. "You are as silver-tongued as your Lucius. I wonder if you will cry out as he, in the same pathetic, feminine fashion. May I remind you, that your _father_ returned as Karkaroff, with the same excuses, and yet you look upon him! Why should I not extract my punishment on you as I have Karkaroff?"

Draco categorized his panic away, which was something he could subject to later. Collectedly, he bowed his head to the Dark Lord. "I cannot apologize for my father's misgivings. I was merely a child when this occurred. He had made mistakes, for it seemed you had been eternally suppressed, and had taken more time than needed to establish a fortune and study the spells to make you whole. This is unforgivable. However whereas my father failed, I _will_ succeed in bringing you Potter's head." The Death Eaters around him murmured laughter. "Our family is not merely a collaboration of failure. Although my mother has defied my rule as head-of-house and cleaned my hands of all tasks you have given me, the deaths you have required have been carried out. Bellatrix, as well, has been faithful under your name. She slain Sirius Black, a confidant of Potter, and weakened his defenses considerably.

"If you choose to punish me, I shall take your extraction with head held high, for I _know_ in the future I _will_ change your expectations of House Malfoy."

The Dark Lord gesticulated for Draco to step back. He spent no time mulling over Draco's promises, but from the slight frown on His face, He was not wholly pleased with the fact Malfoy was not a mouse to torture for amusement. He was poised to strike mercilessly promptly afterward, like a Cobra desperate for a meal. Goyle shifted in place, and he made his attack, beginning the same heedless interrogation and shaming accusations.

_I have dodged a dragon_, Draco thought, striping the flesh from his lip._ For now._


End file.
